THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


^  from  Qld 


MINNIE  WARD  PATTERSON. 


CHICAGO: 

C.  J.  BURROUGHS  &  CO.,    PRINTERS,    198  CLARK  ST. 
1875. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1875,  by 

C.  J.  BURROUGHS  &  CO., 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


rs 


DEDICATED 


To  THE  FRIENDS  OF  LANG  SYNE. 


759829 


Friends  of  Lang  Sync : 

Pursuant  to  your  many  requests  I  have  at  length  put  these 
poems  into  a  book.  Its  errors  and  deficiencies,  I  know  you 
will  pardon,  because  of  the  friendship  you  bear  me,  and  the 
old  times  recalled  by  its  pages. 

A^  to  the  great  world,  I  have  heard  it  is  full  of  willing 
surgeons,  (some  of  whom  may  be  quacks,)  into  whose  hands 
the  fledgeling  must  fall.  If  its  eyes  do  not  match,  they  will 
extract  them ;  if  its  limbs  are  unequal,  they  will  amputate 
them ;  if  its  blood  is  imperfect,  they  will  remove  it ;  and,  if 
its  plumage  offend,  not  a  pin-feather  will  they  allow  to 
remain. 

How  long  it  will  take  to  complete  the  operation,  I  know 
not ;  but,  when  the  remains  are  brought  to  my  view,  and  I 
gaze,  through  tears,  on  the  fragments  of  that  little  crow, 
(which  never  pretended  to  be  exactly  white,  nor  altogether 
symmetrical,)  when  I  think  how  hard  I  scratched  for  the  worms 
which  gave  it  what  little  roundness  it  possessed,  and  remem 
ber  the  maternal  delusion  that  saw  beauty  in  its  form  and 
gait,  and  heard  music  in  its  systematic  cawings,  I  beg  your 
sympathy,  and  somewhat  expect  it ;  for  some  of  you  have 
learned  by  similar  experience,  both  the  value  and  method  of 
suitable  commiseration.  At  the  cremation — the  last  sad  duty 
to  the  dissected  bird — all  are  respectfully  invited  to  assist 

THE  AUTHOR. 


P  R  0  E  M. 

Weary,  the  traveler  turns  his  feet  towards  the  home 

of  his  childhood — 
Golden  its  portals  gleam,  like  a  fane  of  enchanted 

glow ; 
Memory's    sacred    altar    flushes    the   waste    of    its 

wildwood, 
Burning  his  present  joys  to  brighten  the  long  ago. 

What   though   the   Indies  pour   their  wealth   in  his 

willing  bosom? — 
Little  and  light  the  boon,  as  the  slow  years  onward 

flow; 
Little   and   light,  to   one  who    treasures  a  withered 

blossom, 

Plucked  by  some    loving   hand,  in   the   beautiful 
long  ago. 


6  POEMS. 

Amulets,  quaint   and   fair,  he   bears   on   his   desert 

roaming — 
Rings  and  ringlets  of  gold,  and  letters  that  dearer 

grow: 
Sweet,  to  him,  the   mystic  strains  .they  summon  at 

gloaming — 
Echoes  of  voices  loved  in  the  wonderful  long  ago. 

Each    has    his    treasures    old — reminders   of    early 

rambles, 
Gathered   with   merry  hands   from    the   paths  we 

used  to  know; 
Yours   may   be    gems   and    flowers — mine   are   but 

pebbles  and  brambles, 

Yet  may  you  hold  them  dear,  for  the  sake  of  the 
long  ago. 


LEFT  FOR  DEAD. 

The  battle  is  over,  'tis  quiet  again ; 

In  the  chill,  and  the  blood,  and  the  damp, 
They  have  left  me  for  dead,  so  faint  was  my  moan, 

And  they've  carried  the  wounded  to  camp. 
In  the  morning,  they'll  come  and  bury  us  boys, 

And  they'll  never  know  of  the  strife 
Of  this  struggling  soul,  and  this  dying  tongue, 

For  a  day  or  two  more  of  life. 

This  cloud  of  smoke  smothers  me,  where  I  lie, 

And  the  campfires  look  red  through  the  haze ; 
The  boys  are  rejoicing, — I  hear  what  they  say, 

As  they  gather  around  the  blaze. 
Yes,  "the  war  is  now  past" — from  the  very  first  fight,. 

I  have  carried  my  musket,  till  now : — 
In  Heav'n  I'll  be  glad  that  I  died  for  the  right, 

Though  no  laurels  encircle  my  brow ! 


8  POEMS. 

I  wish  I  but  knew  if  their  general  FELL, 

When  the  ranks  of  the  enemy  broke ; 
For,  when  I  took  aim,  there  was  haze  in  my  eyes, 

And  he  waved,  like  a  ghost,  in  the  smoke. 
Well,  death  must  come  some  time,  and  so  let  it  come, 

But  I  hope  they  will  let  Mary  know 
That  the  one  she  most  honored  was  strong  till  the 
last — 

That  I  died  with  my  face  to  the  foe. 

I've  no  fault  to  find  in  the  matter,  but  yet, 

Though  I'm  proud  to  die  just  as  I  am, 
It  would  seem  nearer  right  could  I  feel  Katie's  touch, 

Or  the  kiss  of  my  dear  little  Sam. 
I  know  they  remember  me  now,  but  I  hope, 

To  remember  me  longer,  they'll  try ; 
No  matter — they'll  find  me  at  roll  call,  I  know — 

Till  then — home  and  dear  ones — good-bye ! 


LINES  UPON  VISITING  MY  NATIVE 
VILLIAGE.* 

Dear  old  village !  am  I  wand'ring 

Once  again  your  grassy  way? 
Do  I  tread  the  quiet  valleys, 

Where,  a  child,  I  used  to  play? 
Darling  sister,  'tis  like  dreaming — 

Holding  thus  your  hand  in  mine  ; 
And  the  old  love,  on  me  beaming, — 

Thrills  me  like  a  gleam  divine ! 

Oft,  in  slumber,  comes  a  vision 

Of  the  happy  long-ago ; 
But  it  always  flees  at  morning, 

And  I  fear  this  may  do  so, 
While  we  linger  near  the  cottage 

Where  our  precious  mother  died; 
And  old  mem'ries,  thronging  'round  us, 

Flit,  like  ghosts,  on  every  side. 

*Niles,  Mich. 


10  POEMS. 

I  can  see  her  at  the  window, 

As  I  saw  her  when  a  child, 
As  she  glanced,  from  work  or  reading, 

At  our  merry  sport,  and  smiled : 
Or,  when  ruder  grew  our  gladness, 

As  she  turned  on  us  her  eyes, 
With  a  sadness  that  rebuked  us, 

Like  a  whisper  from  the  skies. 

Cruel  hands  have  lopped  the  branches 

That  o'erhung  our  humble  door ; 
Yet  the  robins  love  to  linger 

Where  they  sang,  in  days  before. 
It  may  be  the  love  of  old  times 

Clings  to  them  as  well  as  me; 
And,  though  gone,  they  love  to  warble 

Near  where  stood  their  native  tree. 

Oh !  how  little  did  I  prize  thee, 
Angel  mother,  while  on  earth ! 

But,  in  long,  sad  years  without  thee, 
I  have  partly  learned  thy  worth. 


POEMS.  II 

What  would  I  not  give  to  tell  thee 
All  the  heart-aches  of  those  years, 

And  indulge,  upon  thy  bosom, 
In  the  luxury  of  tears! 

Can  it  be — my  gentle  mother — 

That  this  lone,  neglected  mound, 
Where  the  grass,  in  wildness  trailing, 

Shuts  the  sunlight  from  the  ground ; 
And,  with  billows  never  broken, 

Hides  thy  dwelling — can  it  be 
That  the  children  thou  hast  cherished 

Make  no  fairer  couch  for  thee ! 

Hard  it  is  to  gaze  upon  it, 

As  the  all  that  I  may  see ; 
But  'tis  sweet  to  know  one  angel 

Loving  waits  in  Heav'n  for  me. 
Tell  me  not,  cold-hearted  skeptic, 

That  the  dead  are  gone  for  aye : — 
I  have  felt  her  soft  arms  fold  me, 

As  I  knelt  to  weep  and  pray. 


12  POKMS. 

Felt  the  air  of  Hqaven  stealing 

O'er  my  earthly,  tear-stained  cheek, 
As  she  nightly  hovered  o'er  me, 

Words  of  peace  and  hope  to  speak : 
Waked  to  hear  the  words  of  music 

Ling'ring  still,  as  when  I  slept — 
Known  that  angels  were  around  me, 

And  for  very  gladness  wept! 

Farewell !  to  thy  low  bed,  mother ; 

Though  I  know  'tis  nought  of  thee, 
Yet  I  would  that  ever  near  it, 

While  on  earth,  my  home  might  be. 
For,  when  sorrows  thicken  'round  me, 

It  would  seem  a  wond'rous  rest, 
Could  I  seek  thy  lonely  pillow — 

Weep  them  out  upon  thy  breast ! 

Farewell!  gentle,  patient  sister, 
Who,  through  every  good  and  ill, 

Unkind  word  of  mine,  and  action, 
Faithful  art,  and  patient  still. 


POEMS.  13 

These  few  days  with  thee  have  shown  me 

What  an  earnest  soul  can  be ; 
And  how  much  my  own  must  conquer, 

Ere  I  sit  in  Heav'n  with  thee. 

Farewell !  friends,  whom  years  of  absence 

Had  no  power  to  estrange ! 
Faith  in  human-kind  is  strengthened 

By  your  truth,  though  all  else  change. 
How  I  will  recall  your  sayings, 

In  my  lonely,  coming  years! — 
Precious  beacon-lights  to  cheer  me 

O'er  my  stormy  sea  of  tears ! 

Farewell !  dear  old  native  village ! 

What  sweet  stories  are  entwined 
With  each  rock,  and  hill,  and  islet ! 

Must  I  leave  them  all  behind, 
As  I  onward  press  to  labor — 

Toil  and  grasp  for  ends  sublime ! — 
No !  mirage -like,  I  shall  view  them, 

On  the  gath'ring  mists  of  time! 


14  POEMS. 

This  may  be  a  childish  worship, 

But,  in  almost  every  mind, 
There's  a  "Holiest  of  Holies," 

Where  some  idol  is  enshrined : 
And,  when  I  grow  old  and  weary, 

And  from  earth  would  fain  be  free, 
Pilgrim-like,  with  rev'rent  footstep, 

Mecca-shrine,  I'll  turn  to  thee ! 

Happy,  if  my  native  valley 

Will  but  hide  me  in  her  breast, 
And,  where  those  I  love  lie  mold'ring, 

Lull  me  peacefully  to  rest. 
Happy,  if  some  loving  footstep 

Will  but  seek  my  pillow,  wild ; 
And  the  tear  of  pure  affection 

Fall  above  this  wayward  child ! 
August,  1862. 


THE  DEATH  DREAM. 

Through  the  wide  casement,  the  soft  moonlight 
Filled,  with  its  glory,  a  rude,  little  room ; 

Touching  a  sweet  face,  thin  and  white, 

And  a  watcher,  who  silently  wept  out  his  gloom. 

Too  fair  for  earth  was  the  beautiful  brow, 
And  sinless  soul  of  his  heart's  young  bride, 

Yet  bright  was  the  vision  to  him,  even  now, 

Of  long,  coming  years  she  should  walk  by  his  side. 

Waking,  the  blue  eyes  sought  his  face, 

And  the  bright  head  pillowed  itself  on  his  breast, 

With  a  smile  that  said  'twas  the  dearest  place 
On  earth,  for  the  loving  one  to  rest. 

"Darling,"  she  said,  "I  dreamed,  to-night, 
That  in  glory  the  beautiful  clouds  unrolled, 

Where  the  sun  went  down,  in  a  sea  of  light, 
And  molded  their  mists  into  gates  of  gold. 


1 6  POEMS. 

"Silent  and  pale,  from  her  heights  afar, 

Softly  the  vesper  planet  shone ; 
And  I  thought,  as  I  gazed,  that  the  evening  star 

Was  what  mortals  could  see  of  the  'Great  White 

Throne.' 
"Then  away  I  soared,  until,  opening  wide, 

Swung  the  golden  gates,  and  I  entered  in ; 
And  felt,  as  I  left  all  my  guilt  outside, 

The  rapture  of  souls  that  are  free  from  sin. 

"Soft  arms  were  about  me,  and  voices  sweet; 

And  lips  that  in  childhood  my  forehead  pressed, 
Were  first,  'mong  the  angel  throng,  to  greet 

The  wanderer  home,  to  her  welcome  rest. 

"Teardrops  of  gladness  a  moment  flowed — 
Like  balm  and  healing  they  bathed  my  eyes; 

Then  down  on  the  golden  pavement  glowed, 
In  precious  gems  of  a  thousand  dyes. 

"The  angels  told  me  the  beautiful  thrones 
And  walls  and  gates  and  pillars  of  Heaven 

Were  made  of  the  tears  of  repentant  ones, 

Who  had  sinned  and  suffered,  and  been  forgiven. 


POEMS.  17 

"They  had  all  been  gathered  to  deck  the  home 
That  awaited  the  tread  of  their  weary  feet ; 

Some  were  chaplets  of  beauty,  and  some 

Were  fountains  that  murmured  in  music  sweet. 

"Some  wafted  up,  and,  in  clouds  of  gold, 

Over  the  radiant  city  shone ; 
Some  were  gathered,  in  splendor  untold, 

To  soften  the  glory  of  God's  great  throne. 

"Some  were  love-light  in  angel  eyes; 

Some  were  music  on  angel  tongues; 
Some  swept,  in  ecstatic  melodies, 

O'er  harps,  and  mingled  with  angel  songs. 

"Whatever  they  were,  they  had  all  been  kept, 

To  gladden    the  mourners  when    they  should  be 
free — 

And  I  wondered,  if  I  had  repented  and  wept 

Still  more,  if  Heav'n  could  have  been  brighter  to  me. 

"And  they  told  me  the  soul  that  had  shed  few  tears, 
Of  repentance  and  gratitude  dear  to  God, 

Was  only  a  child,  and  must  grow  for  years, 
Ere  it  knew  half  the  glory  of  his  abode. 


1 8  POEMS. 

"One  moment,  in  meekness,  I  bowed  my  head. 

Mute  with  wonder  and  gratitude ; 
Then  up  from  my  soul  the  wild  melody  sped, 

And  I  swept  my  lute  and  sang  'God  is  good.' 

"Myriad  harps,  of  a  myriad  tones, 

Caught  the  measure,  and  echoed  it  'round ; 

Myriad  voices  of  angelic  ones 

Lovingly  dwelt  on  the  rapturous  sound. 

"In  forests  of  perfume,  the  laden  air 

Swept  through  the  green  aisles,  with  ^olian  trills; 
While  footsteps  of  angels,  in  joy,  everywhere, 

Whispered  anthems  of  praise  o'er  the  heavenly  hills ! 

"The  lilies  of  Heaven  clapped  their  hands, 
And  love  looked  out  from  their  starry  eyes; 

While  crystal  waters,  o'er  golden  sands, 
Sang  praise  to  the  holy  sacrifice. 

"And  Jesus  was  there,  the  beloved  and  best 

Of  the  bright  host  of  Heaven,  and  oh !  it  was  sweet 

To  feel  His  smile  on  me,  and  lean  on  His  breast, 
And  kiss  where  the  nails  pierced  His  hands  and 
His  feet. 


POEMS.  19 

"'Twas  a  beautiful  dream,  I  seem  dreaming  it  still; 

'Round  me  angels  are  hov'ring — I  feel  their  soft 

breath ; 
And  raptures  of  Heaven  my  dull  senses  fill — 

Ah!  dearest  one !  this  is  no  dreaming — \>\\\.  death!" 

One  passionate  moan — one  clinging  caress — 

One  sudden  death-pang,  and  then  Life's  brittle  band 

Was  shattered,  and  out  from  this  world's  wilderness, 
Together,  they  went,  to  that  beautiful  land! 


EXTRACT  FROM  AN  ESSAY  ON 
"MYSTERY." 

The  flow'r  that,  with  its  smiling  eye, 

Looks  up  to  us  from  earth, 
Proclaiming  to  the  passer  by 

The  pow'r  that  gave  it  birth; 
In  its  fair  form,  and  way  of  life, 

Displays  a  wondrous  plan, 
That  should  rebuke  the  pride,  and  strife 

For  pow'r,  twixt  man  and  man. 
Yet  all  is  mystery,  we  know, 

To  solve,  in  vain  we  try; 
Such  things  we  know  are  so  and  so, 

But  none  can  tell  us  why! 

We  turn  our  eyes  at  night,  afar, 

Upon  the  feeble  glow 
Of  light,  that  started  from  a  star 

A  thousand  years  ago ; 
And  wonder  if,  through  all  of  space, 

Creative  pow'r  hath  been ; 


POEMS.  21 

And  circling  worlds  have  scattered  rays 

That  man  hath  ne^'er  seen. 
And  then  we  wonder  what  is  light? 

And  why  it  never  dies, 
And  if  at  last  eternal  night 

Will  robe  the  wasted  skies ! 

Thus  on  we  muse,  for  this  faint  spark 

Of  God,  we  call  the  soul, 
Would  fain  leap  from  its  prison  dark, 

And  comprehend  the  whole. 
As  waters,  from  the  mountain,  leap 

High  from  their  valley  bed, 
The  human  soul  its  goal  will  keep 

High  as  the  Fountain-head! 

'Tis  hard,  with  all  our  pride,  to  think 

Our  wisdom  is  in  vain 
To  learn  a  single  mystic  link, 

Of  Nature's  wondrous  chain. 
We  only  know,  rock,  stream  and  sea, 

Bird,  beast  and  flow'r  and  sod — 
All  things,  that  breathe,  that  live,  or  be, 

Proclaim  "THERE  is  A  GOD!" 


LINES  TO  A  FRIEND. 

This  life  a  gleam  of  Heaven  would  seem, 

If  it  had  nought  of  sorrow; 
But  trouble  waits,  while  joy  elates, 

To  cloud  the  coming  morrow. 

God  knoweth  best :  a  sweeter  rest 
Shall  crown  our  earthly  labor, 

For  ev'ry  tear,  if,  while  we're  here, 
We  love  Him,  and  our  neighbor. 

If  it  were  mine  to  'round  thee  twine 
Kind  Heaven's  choicest  blessing, 

I'd  ask  for  thee  a  spirit  free 

From  all  complaint,  depressing. 

Thy  patient  mind  could  ever  find 
True  cause  enough  for  sorrow, 

O'er  real  woes  our  sad  world  knows, 
And  never  need  to  borrow. 


POEMS.  23 

Wherever  crime  fills  up  the  time 

Of  spirits  born  immortal, 
I'd  have  thee  stand  with  angel  hand, 

And  point  to  Heaven's  portal. 

Where  want  and  grief  are,  for  relief, 

I'd  have  thee  bend  in  pity ; 
Each  tear  will  gem  thy  diadem, 

Within  the  Mystic  City. 

And,  living  thus,  sweet  memories 

Shall  weave  their  golden  glory ; 
And  round  thee  shine — a  light  divine. 

While  sunny  locks  grow  hoary. 

And  when,  at  last,  the  day  is  past, 

And  angel  ones  caress  thee — 
Full  many  a  heart  shall  feel  the  smart, 

And  countless  tongues  shall  bless  thee. 


WHISPERS  FROM  BEYOND. 

Silvery  murmurs  on  every  side. 

Whispering  through  the  gathering  gloom, 
Like  angel  voices,  at  eventide, 
,  Lovingly  come. 

Voices  like  those  of  the  dear,  dead  past, 

Sweeter  and  nearer  are  softly  heard, 
Till  I  hush,  and  list !  and  my  heart  beats  fast ! 
Oh !  for  one  word! 

Vain !  'tis  the  echo  of  other  things — 

The  silvery  touch  of  their  airy  tread 
Or  the  whispering  whirr  of  their  brooding  wings, 
Over  my  head. 


WHY  FULL  OF  CARE? 

Oh!  what  is  there  to  make  us  sad? 

The  world  is  bright  and  fair; 
And  everything  is  gay  and  glad — 

Why  are  we  filled  with  care? 
The  little  brook,  the  lowly  flow'rs. 

The  birds  among  the  trees, 
Smile,  dream  and  sing  away  the  hours, 

As  careless  as  the  breeze! 

There's  not  a  spot,  where'er  I've  strayed, 

Where  all  was  sad  and  drear ; 
Where  not  one  gleam  of  gladness  played, 

The  darkest  scenes  to  cheer ; 
And,  if  we  cherish,  in  the  heart, 

The  sunshine  God  has  giv'n, 
We'll  save  from  life  full  many  a  smart, 

And  make  earth  almost  Heav'n! 


A  DREAM. 

Wierd  and  strange  the  scene  that  bound  me 

Fitfully  the  quiv'ring  gleam 
Of  the  lightning  shot  around  me, 

As  I  saw  it  in  my  dream. 
Wildly,  frightfully  it  glinted 

Through  the  blackness  of  the  night, 
And  the  marble  tombstones  tinted, 

With  its  cold,  unearthly  light. 

As  I  wandered,  drenched  and  weary, 

Through  the  city  of  the  dead; 
With  no  friendly  voice  to  cheer  me, 

And  nowhere  to  lay  my  head; 
Hard  and  bitter  were  the  feelings 

That  arose  within  my  breast, 
Till  I  wooed  the  very  lightning 

Down,  to  give  my  spirit  rest. 


POEMS.  27 

As,  with  eye  and  hand  uplifted 

To  the  reckless  blaze  above, 
Hoarsely  shrieked  I  that,  in  pity, 

'  Twould  perform  that  deed  of  love ; 
Suddenly  I  heard  a  footstep — 

O'er  me  crept  an  icy  breath— 
I  remembered  I  was  walking 

In  the  very  home  of  Death. 

Nearer — nearer  drew  that  footstep — 

Low  as  heart-throb  was  its  fall, 
Yet,  though  raged  and  roared  the  tempest, 

Strangely  was  it  heard  o'er  all. 
Closer  crept  the  icy  breathing, 

Till  each  swelling  vein  was  still, 
Every  weary  limb  was  palsied, 

And  my  very  heart  grew  chill. 

Then  a  voice,  weighed  low  with  anguish, 

Spoke  these  chiding  words  to  me : 
"  Thoughtless  mortal !  art  thou  tired 

Of  earth-life,  and  wouldst  be  free? 


l8  POEMS. 

Woulst  thou  leave  this  world  of  action, 

Ere  thy  life-task  be  half  done? 
Rouse  thee  to  the  work  that  waits  thee ! 

Ask  no  crown  till  it  is  won!" 

Then  my  heart  resumed  its  throbbing — 

Trembling  life  came  back  again  ; 
And  I  saw  one  near  me  walking, 

Burdened  low  with  sheaves  of  grain. 
Thin  and  white  his  damp  locks  floated 

On  the  howling,  angry  blast ; 
Dark  his  sable  mantle  fluttered 

'Round  about  him,  as  he  passed. 

"Whither  walkest  thou,  oh  stranger?" 

Said  I  to  the  drooping  form, 
"Cruel  night-winds  moan  about  thee — 

There's  no  pity  in  the  storm. 
Why,  for  these,  leave  friends  and  hearthstone, 

Or  hast  thou  no  dwelling  place?" 
Then  a  strange,  unearthly  gleaming 

Overspread  his  withered  face — 


POEMS.  29 

Issued  from  his  sombre  raiment, 

Till  I  trembled  at  the  sight- 
Till  the  earth  and  air  was  teeming 

With  that  cold,  blue,  ghastly  light. 
"Mortal!  dost  thou  call  me  stranger? — 

There's  no  home  I  enter  not — 
Cross,  unbidden,  every  threshold, 

Never  there  to  be  forgot. 

"Whither  walk?  go  ask  the  tempest, 

Rushing  madly  to  and  fro, 
All  its  restless,  trackless  journeys — 

Even  then  ye  may  not  know. 
Floating  on  the  breath  of  morning — 

Resting  not  at  sultry  noon, 
Wand'ring  through  the  mellow  twilight — 

Meeting  every  one  too  soon ; — 

"Through  the  storm  or  hush  of  midnight — 

Onward — stern — unwearied  still; — 
And  the  flash  in  yonder  heaven 

Is  but  vassal  to  my  will. 


30  POEMS. 

War  and  pestilence  and  famine — 
All  these  hasten  at  my  word. " 

Then  he  leaned  him,  as  one  weary, 
On  a  gleaming,  naked  sword. 

"Men  have  called  me  King  of  Terrors — 
Tried  to  shun  my  dreaded  way, 

But  in  vain,  for  all  are  mortal, 

•     All  must  own  my  awful  sway. 

Messengers  of  mine  are  waiting, 
Wand'ring  ever  to  and  fro, — 

Some  are  lurking  in  the  shadows. 
'  Neath  the  laughing  waters  flow. 

"Sting  of  scorpion,  breath  of  nightshade, 

Wild  tornado's  blasting  sweep — 
Trackless  oceans'  angry  billows 

Never  weary,  never  sleep. 
Should  the  weal  of  future  ages 

Ask  a  mighty  city's  fall ; 
Desolating  fire  and  earthquake 

Slumber — waiting  but  my  call. 


POEMS.  31 

"Scorching  wrath  of  bursting  mountains, 

Molten  rock,  and  lava  rain, 
For  the  toil  and  pride  of  millions, 

Leave  a  silent,  vacant  plain. 
Love  and  pride  are  strong — but  nothing 

Can  an  earthly  idol  save. " 
Then  he  stooped,  and  laid  his  burden 

Down,  upon  a  new-made  grave. 

And  I  saw,  of  what  I  once  thought 

To  be  ripe  and  well  filled  sheaves, 
Some  were  only  worthless  branches, 

Others,  little  else  than  leaves. 
Myriads  of  gorgeous  flowers, 

In  the  beauty  of  their  bloom, 
Spread  their  glowing  petals  'mong  them, 

With  a  witching,  strange  perfume. 

Some,  with  scarce  a  leaf  unfolded, 

Had  been  rudely  snatched  from  earth — 

Some,  with  every  petal  withered, 
Bore  the  glorious  fruit  of  worth. 


32  POEMS. 

Then  I  asked  the  mighty  angel 
"Why  should  all  these  flowers  die? 

Why  rob  earth  of  fruits  and  beauty, 
Leaving  such  poor  stalks  as  I? 

"I  have  wept,  and,  longing,  listened 

For  the  coming  of  thy  feet ; 
These  have  shunned  thy  dreaded  visit — 

Life,  to  them,  was  bright  and  sweet. " 
"Child  of  earth!"  the  angel  answered, 

"Dost  thou  think  my  mission  light, 
Thus  to  spread,  o'er  worth  and  beauty, 

Poisoned  dew  and  early  blight? 

"Is  it  joy  for  me  to  wander, 

P'or  my  awful,  primal  sin, 
'  Mong  my  children,  shunned  and  hated, 

Till  the  last  one's  gathered  in ! 
Thinkest  thou  it  gives  me  pleasure, 

Thus  to  see  and  aid  their  fall ! 
And  to  hourly  feel — my  sinning 

Once  in  Eden,  caused  ii  all!  " 


POEMS.  33 

Then  a  music,  low  and  plaintive, 

As  the  sobbing  autumn  breeze, 
Strangely  heard,  among  the  tossings 

And  the  moanings  of  the  trees — 
Wild,  sweet  measure,  full  of  sadness, 

Floated  solemnly  along, 
Till  all  thought  and  being  blended, 

In  that  sorrow-burdened  song. — 

"Over  the  land,  and  over  the  sea, 

Light  and  thought  less  swift  than  we — 

Entering  palace,  and  peasant's  cot — 

Hated,  and  never  to  be  forgot — 

We  choose  our  victims,  and  nought  can  save ; — 

Diamonds,  and  precious  gems  and  gold 
Brighten  the  pageant  to  the  grave, 

But  cannot  ransom  a  life  once  told. — 
Hated  by  him  who  shared  my  sin, 

Yet  loving  him  fondly  as  when  of  yore 
We  wandered  in  Eden's  sunny  bow'rs, 

Nor  dreamed  of  the  destiny  hovering  o'er! 
Oh !  the  joy  of  existence  then  i 
Days  of  Eden !  come  back  again ! " 


34  POEMS. 

Nearer  swelled  the  weeping  cadence, 

Then  it  trembled  to  a  sigh ; 
And  a  form,  in  sombre  raiment, 

Passed  in  mournful  silence  by. 
Every  feature,  perfect  beauty — 

Form  and  motion,  perfect  grace; 
Heav'n  of  Love  and  Hell  of  anguish 

Met  and  blended  in  her  face. 

Like"  a  cloud  she  floated  onward, 

Murm'ring  oft  the  sad  refrain — 
"  Oh !  the  bliss  that's  past  forever ! 

Eden  joys!  come  back  again!" 
Half  in  terror,  half  in  wonder, 

Then  I  bowed  my  dizzy  head, 
While  the  other  caught  the  measure — 

Wailed  it  wildly  o'er  the  dead : 

"Is  there  no  rest  for  me? — evermore 

Must  I  wander  with  grief  and  tears? 
.  Is  there  no  quiet,  peaceful  shore, 

Where  I  may  hide  from  future  years ! 


POEMS.  35 

Say!  may  I  never  look  upon  joy — 

Never  listen  to  mirth  and  song, 
But  I  must  change  them  to  dirges  and  wo! 

Righteous  Father!  how  long? — how  long?" 

On  he  chanted,  till  the  tempest 

Hushed  its  noisy  breath  to  hear — 
Till  the  moon  that  lighted  Eden 

Smiled  again  serene  and  clear — 
Till,  transported  with  an  anguish 

Keener  far  than  words  could  say, 
Broken  grew  his  dismal  measure, 

And  the  last  sound  died  away. 

Then  he  murmured,  "  Look  up,  daughter ! " 

Sad,  not  fearful,  was  his  face— 
"Look  on  him  who  caused  all  sorrow — 

Father  of  the  human  race ! 
Go !  my  sword  may  not  yet  smite  thee, 

Hate  thy  precious  life  no  more; 
Go !  be  useful,  blest  and  happy 

Till  thy  active  life  is  o'er. 


36  POEMS. 

In  my  doom  the  price  of  sinning 

Know,  and  shun  such  fearful  cost; — 
In  thy  life  may  yet  be  brightness, 

And  thy  future — what  I've  lost!" 
As  he  ceased,  an  awful  darkness 

Hid  him  from  my  mortal  sight — 
Gloom  so  palpable — oppressive — 

I  awakened  with  affright. 

Cold  the  moonbeams  fell  upon  me, 

In  the  churchyard  all  alone; 
But  the  voices  I  had  dreamed  of — 

Sheaves  and  angels,  all  were  gone. 
Giant  trees  were  strewn  around  me, 

Lightning-rifted,  everywhere ; 
Dripping  locks  and  drenched  garments 

Told  the  tempest  had  been  there. 
Ghastly  white,  the  marble  tombstones 

'Round  me  gave  the  same  cold  gleam 
They  had  seemed  to  in  my  slumber — 

Yet  it  must  have  been  a  dream ! 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

ALUMNI  POEM,  June  16,  1875. 

Welcome !  bright,  restful  hour,  with  love  and  remem 
brance  teeming; 
Welcome !  dear  home,  whose  halls  grow  dearer  with 

gath'ring  years; 
There's  a  celestial  ray  'mid  the  glow  of  our  gladness 

streaming — 

Prophecy,  dim  and  fair,  of  a  life  that  hath  done 
with  tears! 

Each,  in    this  toilsome  world,  the    servant  of  hard 

Ambition — 
Striving  and  restless  and  wild  for  a  share  of  its 

vain  eclat, 
Finds,  in  a  grateful  word,  a  more  than  his  hope's 

fruition ; 

And  sweeter  an  hour  of  love  than  a  life  of  the 
world's  huzza ! 


38  POEMS. 

So,  in  the  rich    To  Be,  that  waiteth  our  fleet  life's 

ending, 
Fair  though  its  fragrant  groves,  and  balm  though 

its  murm'ring  air, 
Deep  though  the  spirit  thrill,  with  their  beauties  and 

harmonies  blending, 

What  were  they  all  to  the  LOVE  that  shall  clasp  us 
forever  there ! 

Some  of  our  precious  band  have  already  its  radiance 

entered — 
Wooed  from  a  wintry  world  by  a  dream  of  a  fairer 

clime : 
Wearisome  grew  the  way  while  their  longing  hopes 

were  centered 

Far  in  the  flow'ry  shades  of  its  wonderful  summer 
time. 

Dear  was  thy  true   life,   Laura,*  that   sped  in  the 

morning,  smiling; 
Heavy  the  night  that  fell  o'er  hearts  that  had  loved 

like  ours; 
*Miss  Laura  Rowe,  Preceptress,  class  of  '65. 


POEMS.  39 

Sweet,   o'er  its   sobbing,   rose  the  music  of  Faith's 

beguiling, 

That  sung  of  a  brighter  dawn,  in  the  bliss  of  im 
mortal  bow'rs! 


Marvelous  gem  art  thou,  in  the  crown  of  our  loving 

mother, 
Planet  of  magic  glow  in   the   ether  of  Memory's 

love! 
Ne'er   can   thy   radiance   pale   in    the   splendors  of 

another, 

For  the  glory  that  shines  about  thee  is  a  ray  from 
the  world  above ! 

Pure,  as  the  dew,  wert  thou,  that  floats  to  the  sky  at 

morning ; 
Tender   and   true   art   thou,    safe   sheltered   from 

earthly  strife; 
Fitter,   for  thee,   the   gems  of  Heav'n's   undreamed 

adorning — 
Best,  for  thy  fine,  rare  soul,  the  thrill  of  a  finer  life ! 


40  POEMS. 

Scarce  had  the  pitying  sod  stole  over  the  grave  we 

made  thee, 
Scarce  had  the  wildwood  rlow'rs  had  time  to  wither 

and  bloom, 
Ere,  in  the  forest  glade,  where  we  sadly  and  lovingly 

laid  thee, 
Sadly  and  lovingly  laid  we  our  brother  *  in  the  tomb. 

Strange  that  a  soul  so  rich  in  itself,  and  with  wealth 

so  freighted, 
Drawn  from  the  teeming  mines  and  mints  of  the 

old  and  new, 

Should,  in  the  glorious  day  for  which  we  had  prayer 
fully  waited, 

Solemnly   lift   its   white   wings,    and   vanish   from 
earthly  view! 

Strange,  till  we  think  awhile,  and  the  years  that  we 

deem  as  wondrous, 

Sink  to  but  curving  swells  on  the  breast  of  a  bound 
less  sea: — 

*Professor  Wayland  Dunn,  class  of  '62. 


POEMS.  41 

What  are  the  mines  and  mints  of  earth,  with  their 

treasures  pond'rous, 

Viewed    from    the    limitless    fields    of    a    blissful 
eternity? 

Nor  is  the  labor  lost  to  the  soul  that  departs  at 

morning — 
Stronger  have  grown  the  pow'rs  the  infinite  depths 

to  explore; 

Clearer  have  grown  the  eyes  for  the  new  life's  glori 
ous  dawning — 

Keener  the  sense   may  thrill  to  the  joys  of  the 
mystic  shore. 

Long  had  he  walked  on  the  verge  of  the  valley,  and, 

smiling,  listened, 
Catching,  with  ravished  ear,  the  strains  from  the 

other  side : 

Narrower  fell  the  stream,  till  the  portals  elysian  glis 
tened, 

Fairer    than   mortal   dream,    through   the   vapors 
above  the  tide. 


42  POEMS. 

'Twas  "but  a  step,  at  most,"  he  said,  as  he  wistfully 

waited — 
Waited  the  welcome  beckon  of  hands  he  had  loved 

of  yore : 

Feeling  at  last  the  thrill  of  a  traveler  weary,  belated, 
Ending  his  desert  march,  on  his  beautiful,  native 
shore! 

Peace  to  the  precious  dust  of  our  sister  and  brother 

sleeping ! 
Nought  can  we  ask  for  those  who've  ascended  the 

shining  way : 
So  let  our  own  lives  glow  with  good,  that,  when  done 

with  weeping, 

They  may,  like  theirs,  be  lost  in  a  fuller  and  fairer 
day! 

Not  alone  for  the  young  is  mourning  our  Alma  Mater ; 
Not  alone  to  the  young  be  the  honors  we  proudly 

yield: 
What  of  her  noble  guardians  whose  triumphs  ended 

later — 

Giant,  resistless  victors,  on   many  a  hard   fought 
field ! 


POEMS.  43 

Tenderly  cross  the   hands   on   the  breast    that   has 

done  with  sorrow, 
Lovingly  close   the   eyes   that  forever  have   done 

with  tears 
Only  for  us   the   grief — not    a   sigh  nor   a  fear  we 

borrow, 

For    the    soul*    whose    glorious    good    deeds   so 
grandly  outweighed  his  years. 

Ever  forgetting  self,  '  twas  his  to  support  the  falling — 
Fanning  to  living  flame,  the  hopes  that  might  soon 

depart ; 
He   had   a   ready    ear   for   the  voice   of  the  needy 

calling — 

There  was  no  meed,  for  him,  like   the  glow  of  a 
grateful  heart! 

So,  when  our  Alma  Mater  languished  in  early  weak 
ness, 

His  was  the  warm,  true  heart,  that  prompted  the 
skilful  hand; 

*Hon.  Daniel  Dunakin. 


44  POEMS. 

His  was  the  loyal  soul  that  ever,  in  Christian  meek 
ness, 

Held  what  he  had  of  wealth  as  only  at  God's  com 
mand! 

Now,  in  the  beautiful  land  of  the  blessed,  the  gener 
ous  giver, 
Crowned  with  eternal  peace,   whose  gladness  no 

tongue  may  sing, 
Done  with  the  toil  and  pain  and  sorrows  of  earth 

forever, 

Hath   his    reward  at  last,  from   the  hand  of  his 
Father  King! 

Scarce  had  our  sighing  hearts  accepted  the  sorrowful 

message, 

Silently  asking  who  should  follow  his  upward  tread, 
When,    from   the   thickening   clouds   of   heavy   and 

direful  presage, 

Flashed  the  sad  truth  to  us  of  another  chieftain 
dead! 


POEMS.  45 

Long  shall  we  miss  thee,  Day,*  thou  veteran,  honored 

and  worthy ! 
Long   shall  we  miss   the   skill   and  force  of  thy 

guiding  hand : 
Much  do  we  owe  to  thee  for  this  monument  gleaming 

o'er  thee, 

Stately  and  fair  and  bright  as  the  best  in  our  sover 
eign  land. 

Folded — thy  hands,  that   never  yet  faltered  in  right 
eous  doing — 
Silent — thy  silver  voice,  that  ever  was  raised  for 

right- 
Palsied — thy  eager  feet,  the  path  of  the  just  pursu 
ing— 

Vanished — thy   noontide   glow,    in   the   gloom  of 
o'er  whelm  ing  night ! 

Many  the  faithful  ones  who  have  fallen  since  last  we 

parted : 

Many  the  weary  feet   that   have  crossed   to  the 
shining  shore : 

*Rev.  George  T.  Day,  D.D. 


46  POEMS. 

When  the  far  death-knell  sounded,  bitter  the  tears 

that  started 

Over   our    girlhood's    treasure,    our   gentle    Julia 
Moore.* 

Early,    alas!    she   drooped,    like    some    tender   and 

tropical  flow'r, 
Torn  by  the  piercing  blast  of  a  clime  too  rude  and 

chill ; 
Sweet,  that  we  held  her  rich,  rare  bloom  one  precious 

hour — 

Sweet,  we  may  know  in  Heaven  she  is  blooming 
for  us  still ! 

Calmly  she  walked  among  us,  pure  and  serene  and 

lowly, 
Holding  the  words  of  life  with  the  meekness  of  a 

child, 
Shedding  her  crescent  light,  till  these  dear  old  haunts 

are  holy, 
Blessed,  for  those  bright,  brief  days,  with  her  presence 

undefiled. 
*Mrs.  Julia  Moore  Jordan,  Preceptress. 


POEMS.  47 

Long  shall  her  virtues  shine  o'er  the  path  she  has 

trod  before  us.; 
Ever  her  voice  be  missed  from  the  halls  we  have 

loved  so  long; 

So  shall  our  loving  praise,  in  ever  repeating  chorus, 
Dearer  to  her  arise,  and  sweeter  than  poet's  song! 

Not    alone    for    the  hands   that  have  toiled  for  our 

loving  mother 
Rises   the  heartfelt  tear,   or  the  mourner's  voice 

to-day : 

Many  the  names  remembered,  of  sister  and  of  brother, 
Who,  like  the  dew,  have  vanished,  in  the  morning's 
early  ray. 

Gone,  with  the  fairy  gleam  of  Life's  gay  spring  about 

them — 
Gone,   with   their  glowing  dreams   of  a  long  life 

wondrous  fair ! 
Wearily  blank  grows  life,  in  the  homes  that  are  blank 

without  them ; 

Wearily   sighs    the    soul    'neath    the  weight   of  its 
wounding  care ! 


48  POEMS. 

All  that  they  might  have  been,  is  not  for  our  mortal 

guessing; 
All  that  they  were  we  honor,  and  garland  with  love 


Nor  may  we  Heaven  chide  for  their  earthly  live's 

suppressing  — 

Fitter  our  grateful  praise  for  the  years  He  left  them 
here! 

Peace   to    the  precious  dead,   and  strength   to   the 

precious  living  — 
Strength  for  the  heavier  burden,  and  zeal  for  the 

fiercer  strife  ! 
All   that   we   have  of  good  is  only  of  God's  kind 

giving— 
All  that  we  may  return  is  only  an  earnest  life  ! 

Steady  the  iron  heart  of  Time  is  forever  beating  — 
Ages  of  wondrous  deeds  are  born  of  these  little 

years  : 
History  calmly  ebbs  and  flows  with  a  strange  repeat 

ing, 

Borrowing  light  and  shade  from  these  little  smiles 
and  tears. 


POEMS.  49 

Scatter  the  flow'rs  of  Love  on  the  graves  of  the  fair 

dead  summers! 
Golden  their  billows  rise  through  the  haze  of  the 

hallowed  past : 
Garland   the  flow'rs  of  Love  on  the  brows  of  the 

bright  new-comers — - 

What  they  may  bring  for  us,  we  are  glad  we  may 
not  forecast. 

It  is'enough,  to-day,  to  look  in  the  dear  old  faces — 
List  to  each  well  known  voice,  and  grasp  the  fami 
liar  hand — 
Talk  of  the  blest  Lang  Syne,  and  dream  of  the  fair 

oases, 

Where  we   may  camp  again,  on  our  way  through 
the  thirsty  land!. 


LITTLE  "PET." 

The  mem'ry,  now,  seems  like  a  dream, 

And  yet  I  know  'tis  true; 
A  bright,  alas !  a  transient  gleam 

I  nevermore  may  view. 
'Tis  sweet  to  think  about  the  loved, 

Though  they  are  with  the  dead; 
They  never  seem  indeed  removed, 

Their  tones  are  never  fled ! 

This  bonny  lock  hath  brushed  her  brow, 

This  ring  her  finger  prest — 
I  gaze  in  sadness  on  them  now, 

For  she  is  laid  to  rest. 
These  little,  withered,  wildwood  flow'rs 

For  me  her  fingers  tied : — 
Like  her,  they  bloomed  a  few  short  hours, 

Like  her,  they  drooped,  and  died! 


POEMS.  51 

A  trifling  gift  I  deemed  them  then, 

And  laid  them  lightly  by; 
But  now  they  bring  her  back  again, 

Till  moisture  dims  my  eye. 
I  almost  see  her  sunny  face, 

And  hear  her  bounding  tread, 
And  listen  to  her  winning  voice — 

I  cannot  think  her  dead! 

'Twas  very  hard  to  lay  her  low — 

The  sunshine  of  our  home — 
The  cherished  bud — but  then  we  know 

The  lost  in  Heaven  will  bloom. 
I'll  meekly  try  to  bear  the  blow 

My  God  in  love  hath  given : 
He  took  my  treasure  home,  I  know, 

To  draw  me  nearer  Heaven ! 


GOD  KNOWETH  BEST. 

God  knoweth  best,  though  years  of  bitter  sorrow 
Weary  thy  soul,  and  cloud  thy  earthly  life ; 

We  know  there  cometh  soon  a  brighter  morrow, 
A  rest,  and  gladness  after  all  the  strife. 

Riches  may  fail,  and  all  the  pow'r  they  lend  thee, 
And  proud  Ambition  die  within  thy  breast ; 

Then,  sweet  to  know  a  Father  doth  befriend  thee, 
And  tune  thy  heart  to  sing  God  knoweth  best. 

When  dark  temptation  wearies  thee  and  tries  thee, 
Till  thou  dost  almost  sink  and  faint  for  rest, 

Cheer  up,  and  know  in  love  God  doth  chastise  thee, 
Thy  victory  is  strength — He  knoweth  best. 

Dear  Father !  let  what  trial  may  come  o'er  us — 
Still  let  us  lean  upon  thy  loving  breast; 

Dark  though  the  past,  the  way  is  bright  before  us, 
While  we  can  meekly  say  God  knoweth  best ! 


TO  VI R A  C . 

In  the  beautiful  past,  there  are  names  that  we  love, 

Which  like  stars  in  the  heavens  lie  aglow; 
And  their  light  meets  our  eye  through  the  haze'in  the 
sky, 

From  the  realm  of  the  sweet  Long  Ago. 
Though  the  storm-cloud  arise,  and  o'erspread^all'our 
skies, 

Still  the  magic  light  flushes  the  haze ; — 
Oh !  thus,  may  our  love  for  each  other  unchanged, 

Light  the  mem'ry  of  these  happy  days ! 


WORK  AS  WELL  AS  PRAY. 

» 

Though  your  heart  may  never  weary, 

Waiting  through  the  lonely  night; — 
Though  your  hearth  may  still  be  cheery — 

Ne'er  have  known  the  wine-cup's  blight ; 
Think  of  those  who  daily  sorrow 

O'er  some  darling  gone  astray ; 
For  the  sunshine  of  their  morrow, 

Up  and  work  as  well  as  pray! 

Though  no  wealth  you  have  to  offer, 

You  can  always  give  good  cheer ; 
Better,  far,  than  burdened  coffer, 

Often  comes  the  heartfelt  tear. 
To  the  noble  cause  we  cherish, 

You  can  give  your  heart  and  voice ; 
Holy  deeds  can  never  perish — 

Loving  words  the  Heavens  rejoice ! 


TO 

When  the  misty  future  changes 
These  bright  days  to  memories; 

And  thy  fancy  fondly  ranges 
O'er  their  quiet  happiness; 

'  Mong  the  friends  that  made  them  cheery, 
Link  this  humble  name  of  mine; 

Hide  the  faults  that  make  me  weary — 
Simply  let  my  friendship  shine! 

There's  a  home,  whose  vernal  glory 
Haunts  me,  when  I  close  my  eyes — 

Fairer  forms  than  dwell  in  story — 

Flow'rs  that  bloom  not  'neath  the  skies- — 

Harps  that  yield  their  rapturous  measure    . 

Only  to  the  courts  above; 
And  the  joy-awaking  treasure, 

Of  that  beauteous  land,  is  Love. 

Oh!  when  Death,  with  chilling  finger, 
Points  us  from  this  world  of  care, 

Let  that  treasure  with  us  linger — 
Let  us  love  each  other  there ! 


POEM,  DELIVERED  AT  THE  QUINQUENNIAL  RE-UNION 

OF   THE 

ALUMNI    OF    HILLSDALE    COLLEGE, 

JUNE  ISTH,  1870. 

From  tumult  and  toil,  and  the  din  of  life's  battle, 
On  furlough  we  haste,  to  the  home  of  our  love. 

The  heart  of  the  mother,  that  waits  for  our  coming, 
Is  true  as  the  Heav'n  that  is  smiling  above. 

Youth  leaps  in  our  veins,  as  we  answer  her  summons, 
Unmindful  of  years  that  upon  us  have  rolled : 

We  say  "boys"  and  "girls"  when  we  talk  of  each  other, 
We  speak  from  the  soul,  and  that  never  grows  old! 

The  June  roses  blush  at  the  kiss  of  the  sunshine, 
The  lily -buds  laugh  for  their  love  of  the  lea; 

And  birds  of  the  woodland,  from  hilltop  and  valley, 
Pour  out  a  sweet  welcome  of  caroling  glee ! 


POEMS.  57 

Yet  not  all  is  gladness,  for  Sorrow  is  brooding, 
With  shadowy  wing,  o'er  the  hearts  of  our  band ; 

For  some  that  we  loved,  and  who  once  were  among  us, 
Have  gone,  at  the  beckon  of  God's  loving  hand. 

In  youth  they  were  dear,  and,  as  time  wore  upon  us, 
We  learned  but  the  better  their  virtues  to  prize ; 

But  we'll  meet  them  no  more,  till  we  cross  the  bright 

threshold 
Of  that  mystical  home,  where  the  soul  never  sighs ! 

Our  strife  may  be  hard,  and  our  skies  often  lower, 
Till  courage  and  joy  spread  their  wings  to  depart; 

Yet  still,  like  a  perfume  of  magical  power, 

Their  mem'ry  shall  linger  to  gladden  each  heart. 

Though  the  Father  of  love  give  us  singing  or  mourn 
ing, 

We  know  that  in  mercy  he  opens  his  hand; 
And,  kneeling  before  him,  we  meekly  adore  him, 

And  pray  for  a  blessing  on  us,  and  our  Land. 


58  POEMS. 

Oh!  wonderful  land,  with  her  valleys  of  vineyards, 
Her  vast,  lowing  herds,  and  her-  mountains  of  ore ! 

No  gem  is  so  rare  that  her  brow  does  not  wear  it — 
No  want  of  the  world  can  endanger  her  store ! 

Her  girdle  of  iron  links  ocean  with  ocean ; 

Her  forests,  unmeasured,  the  world  might  sustain ; 
Her  shipping,  uncounted,  ploughs  wealth  from  her 
rivers, 

And  a  common  mart  makes  of  the  desolate  main ! 

And  still  there  are  mountains  and  valleys  and  prairies 
That  wake  to  no  sound  but  the  song  of  the  bird : 

There  are  solitudes  deep,  in  whose  wildness  unbroken, 
The  tramp  of  the  white  man  has  never  been  heard ! 

Oh !  beautiful  land !  Fairer  skies  than  Italia's 

Hang  over  thy  mountains,  and  burnish  their  haze ! 

No  hues  of  the  Orient  can  mimic  their  purple, 
Or  vie  with  the  gold  of  their  sun-sinking  blaze ! 

And  bright,  flitting  birds,  with  their  plumage  of  crim 
son, 
Sip  nectar  from  flow'rets  of  tropical  dye : 

Oh!  land  of  my  birth,  God  hath  breathed  his  own 

spirit 
Upon  thee,  till  thou  mayst  with  Paradise  vie ! 


POEMS.  59 

In  beauty  and  strength,  through  the  dusk  of  the  ages, 
Prophetic  thy  pillars  shine  forth  on  my  sight; 

Thy  presence  repeating  the  proverb  of  sages — 
"  Eternal  the  structure  supported  by  right ! " 

Yes,  glorious  land,  'neath  the  shade  of  thy  banner, 
The  poor  and  oppressed  ever  find  a  sweet  home ; 

The  golden  grain  waves  in  the  fields  of  their  tilling, 
And  kindly  invites  all  the  needy  to  come. 

Thy  schoolhouses  teem  with  the  sons  of  all  nations, 
Thy  colleges  claim  them  with  honor  and  pride ; 

There's  no  caste  of  wealth,  and  there's  no  caste  of 

color, — 
On  the  throne  of  our  country  they  sit  side  by  side ! 

'Twas  not  ever  thus;  we  with  sadness  remember 
When   the  chains  of  our   bondmen  were   riveted 

strong ; 
When  a  vile  Congress  blackened  our  laws,  and  its 

mem'ry, 
By  lending  its  voice  to  oppression  and  wrong. 


60  POEMS. 

But  the  heart  of  the  nation  beat  true  at  the  center, 
And  freemen,  united,  arose,  and  withstood 

The  giants  of  evil,  till  hilltop  and  valley 

Blushed  out  the  foul  shame,  in  a  deluge  of  blood ! 

Like  gems  on  the  breast  of  the  bright  sunny  south 
land, 
Green  hillocks  lie  thick,  where  our  heroes  repose ; 

They  fell — and  forever  their  names  shall  awaken 
The  homage  of  friends,  and  the  honor  of  foes ! 

One  stain  still  dishonors  the  flag  of  our  country, 

And  may  call  for  blood  from  the  hearts  we  love 

best: 
It  makes  us  the  by-word  of  civilzed  nations, 

It  blackens  the  heart  of  our  beautiful  West. 

Go  fill  up  the  coffers  that  war  has  just  wasted, 
Go  fill  up  the  garners,  for  loved  ones  at  home ! 

Be  statesmen,  in  earnest — the  gall  we  have  tasted 
Is  but  too  prophetic  of  strife  that  must  come ! 

But  when,  with  pure  heart,  woman  stands  as  the  helper 
And  equal  of  man, — soon  may  usher  the  day — 

The  demon  of  crime,  that  debases  and  thralls  us, 
Must  let  go  the  nation  and  hasten  away. 


POEMS.  6 1 

Not  quick,  as  by  force,  but  as  vanished  the  millions 
Of  strange,  frightful  creatures  that  roamed  o'er  the 

earth, 

And  breathed  her  crude  poison,  and  fed  upon  mon 
sters, 
In  armies  of  terror,  ere  man  came  to  birth. 

The  vapory  vail  of  creation  was  rended; 

The  sunlight  crept  into  their  caverns  of  slime ; 
The  pure  air  appalled  and   dispersed  them,  scarce 
leaving 

A  trace  on  the  rude,  rocky  tablet  of  Time ! 

So  Love  shall  illume,  and  the  gr£at  heart  maternal 
Shall  beat  for  her  daughters  and  sons,  then  as  now ; 

That  Love  shall  be  crowned  with  a  vict'ry  supernal, 
As  crime  and  intemperance  waver  and  bow! 

Oh!  give  but  the  power  to  those  who  now  sorrow 
In  vain  o'er  the  frenzy  of  those  they  love  best — 

How   soon   would   be   lightened   the   load   of  their 

anguish, 
And  singing  be  heard  in  the  happy  home  nest ! 

Fear  not !  ne'er  can  liberty  rob  her  of  home-love 
Or  gentleness — You  would  not  fear  that  the  vine, 

Transplanted  from  cellar  to  garden,  and  flinging 
Its  boughs  to  the  breezes,  would  e'er  be  a  pine! 


62  POEMS. 

The  wind  and  the  tempest  may  visit  it  harshly ; 
Its  tendrils  may  shrink  from  the  midsummer  sun ; 

While  broad  spread  the  branches,  with  strength  for 

their  burden 
Of  fruit,  that  is  yours  when  the  harvest  is  done! 

My  Michigan!  dearest  and  best  of  our  number! 

All  honor  to  thee  for  that  triumph  of  right 
Which  opened  the  halls  of  our  pride  to  thy  daughters — 

Let  History  write  it  in  letters  of  light ! 

Thy  record  is  fair  as  the  sky  that  hangs  o'er  thee, 
As  breath  of  the  'prairie  thy  spirit  is  free : 

To  the  grand  march  of  progress  thy  footsteps  are 

hast'ning, 
As  hasten  thy  lakes  to  the  surge  of  the  sea. 

The  beauty  of  truth  through  thy  vestment  is  shining, 
Like  perfume,  thy  liberty  sweetens  the  gale; 

Nor  least  of  thy  gems  is  our  dear  Alma  Mater — 
Her  light  be  our  beacon,  and  nJer  may  it  pale ! 

How  oft  have  our  voices  awakened  her  echoes, 
In  times  that  grow  sacred  with  gathering  years! 

The  visions  of  Lang  Syne  arise,  rainbow-tinted, 
To  us,  as  we  view  them  through  fast  rising  tears ! 


POEMS.  63 

Dear  home  of  my  youth !  may  the  fame  of  thy  future 
Be  fair  as  thy  past,  in  its  palmiest  day; 

May  concord,  and  kind  emulation  uplift  thee, 
And  golden  endowment  untrammel  thy  sway ! 

The  ivy  of  love  be  thy  bond  and  thy  beauty, 

And  brighten  its  green  whene'er  clouds  dim  the  sky ; 

Beneath  thee,  like  granite,  may  temp'rance  and  justice 
Thy  columns  uphold,  and  thy  ruin  defy ! 

Dear  brothers  and  sisters,  we  part,  and  the  billows 
That  part  us  may  never  their  power  withhold; 

But  ties  have  been  formed,  in  this  circle  fraternal, 
More  lasting  than  time,  and  more  precious  than 
gold. 

The  principles  dearest  to  each  of  our  number 

Are  links  that  might  well  our  great  Commonwealth 
bind: 

Be  Justice  her  shield,  and,  adown  in  the  future, 
Her  arms  may  encircle  and  bless  all  mankind! 

May  her  time-tested  banner  float  ever  above  us — 
All  bright  be  its  stripes,  and  undimmed  every  star, 

While  we  swear,  by  the  hearts  that  we  love  and  that 

love  us, 
To  revere  it  in  peace,  and  avenge  it  in  war! 


THE  FORSAKEN  HOME. 

Sister,  I've  wandered  to  the  home, 

Where  we,  in  childhood  played ; 
Nor  dreamed  that,  in  these  few  fleet  years, 

We  could  so  far  have  strayed. 
The  robins  chirp  among  the  trees, 

As  blithe  as  when,  before, 
We  clinked  our  jack-stones  on  the  lawn, 

Before  the  cottage  door. 

The  walnut  tree,  down  by  the  spring, 

Where  swaying  grapevines  hung; 
And  where,  with  hearts  as  pure  and  free 

As  the  waters  there,  we  swung, 
Is  cut  away,  but  one  is  left, 

Where,  often,  you  and  I 
Gathered  the  falling  nuts,  beneath 

The  hazy,  autumn  sky. 

You  know  we  wandered  in  the  woods, 

One  Indian-summer  day, 
And  dug  up  all  the  wild-flow'r  roots, 

We  found  along  the  way ; 


POEMS.  65 

And  planted  in  the  little  spot 

We  called  our  garden  then ; — 
I  sought,  but  found  them  not,  the  place 

Had  grown  to  grass  again. 

The  dear  old  home  looks  desolate, 

And  everything  around; 
And  the  wind  sweeps  through  the  vacant  hall, 

With  a  sad  and  weary  sound. 
In  empty  rooms  I  hear  a  tone — 

The  voice  of  an  echo  sweet, 
But  vainly  look  for  the  dear  ones  gone, 

And  list  their  coming  feet. 

'Tis  but  the  house,  the  dear  old  house, 

And  yet  it  seems  to  feel, 
Or  to  have  felt,  the  yearning  pain, 

That  will  upon  me  steal. 
Mournful  and  dumb,  it  still  remains, 

Pathetic — crumbling — dead — 
From  which  the  living,  loving  band, 
Which  was  its  soul,  has  fled ! 


SUSPENSE. 

Darling  sister,  when  the  twilight 

Like  an  angel  cometh  down, 

(With  the  vesper  star,  that  dimly 

Burns  above  the  dusty  town) 

How  the  flooding  memories  flow 
From  the  gladsome  long  ago. 

Daytime  with  its  cares  and  bustle, 
Anxious  greed  and  strife  for  pelf 
Fills  and  kills  the  hours  till  twilight 
Kindly  woos  our  thoughts  from  self, 
And  our  weary  spirits  roam, 
Backward,  to  our  father's  home. 

How  its  dear  old  shadows  haunt  me, 

When  I  close  my  tearful  eyes! 
How  the  murmurs  of  its  voices, 
Round  my  loneliness,  arise ; 
Till,  within  its  humble  door, 
We  seem  gathered,  as  of  yore. 


POEMS.  67 

Precious  Mem'ry !  ever  faithful 
Art  thou  to  thy  sacred  trust! 
Thon  hast  garnered  up  my  sunlight, 
Though  its  source  hath  tnrned  to  dust, 
And  amid  these  sadder  days, 
I  can  bask  me  in  its  rays. 

In  the  quiet  village  graveyard, 

We  have  made  one  mound — no  more, 
You  and  I  are  left,  but,  sister, 

In  our  loved  home-band  were/<?wr — 
"Where!  Oh!  where  does  father  lie?" 
Comes  no  answer  to  our  cry? 

In  the  glowing,  sunny  southland, 

Where  the  wild  magnolia  blooms, 
Hovering  its  pitying  fragrance 

O'er  unnamed,  unnumbered  tombs — 
'Mong  the  faithful  and  the  brave, 
Did  some  comrade  make  his  grave. 

Or  upon  the  scorching  marshland 

Of  a  dreary  prison  pen, 
Did  he  starve  and  pine  and  perish, 
With  our  hosts  of  noble  men  ? 
"Missing!"  Oh  the  pang  intense 
Of  this  dreary,  long  suspense ! 


68  POEMS. 

Helpless,  crazed,  forsaken,  sightless, 

Does  he  beg  from  door  to  door, 

Dreaming  vaguely  of  the  loved  ones, 

Who  may  never  see  him  more — 

Gazing  far  through  ceaseless  tears 

On  the  bliss  of  other  years? 

In  his  dreams,  do  mem'ries  hover, 

Clear  as  noonday's  cloudless  skies 
Till  amid  the  day's  drear  turmoil 
Only  glimpses  may  arise, 

That  shine  out  upon  the  strife 
Like  a  gleam  of  some  old  life? 

No !  such  portion  were  too  bitter — 

Let  us  not  believe  it  so — 
Rather  let  us  think  he  perished 
With  his  hand  against  the  foe, 
And  the  Southern  soil  was  red 
With  his  blood  where  heroes  bled. 

Father !  when  thou  wert  among  us, 

We  unfaithful  oft  have  proved 
Oft  unheeding — oft  in  anger — 

Grieved  thee,  while  we  deeply  loved — 
JV07V,  the  hardest  of  our  woe 
Is — we  cannot  tell  thee  so. 


POEMS.  69 

On  thy  patient  loving  bosom 

Oh!  to  weep  our  grief  away! 
Oh !  by  years  of  thoughtful  kindness 
Some  of  our  great  debt  to  pay ! 
How  our  weary  hearts  have  bled 
For  the  wrongs  we've,  done  the  dead! 

Hand  in  hand,  among  the  blessed, — 

Ye  are  safe  and  joyous  now 
Angel  father — angel  mother — 

Crowns  of  good  deeds  on  each  brow. 
May  our  brows  such  garlands  wear 
When  at  last  we  meet  you  there ! 

Sister!   Earth  is  full  of  sorrow, 
But  it  bringeth  bliss  as  deep, 
We  can  joy  in  kindness  only 
After  we  have  learned  to  weep. 

Both  our  hearts  have  kinder  grown 
For  the  sorrows  they  have  known. 


TO  THE  HON.  MR.  H ,  AND  LADY. 

COMPLIMENTS   AND    REGRETS   OF  MR.  AND  MRS.  J —  C —  P- 
FOR  THURSDAY   EVENING,  SEPT.  4.TH. 

Regret  is  deep  and  vast  and  vain — 

We  cannot  be  among  you, 
To  help  the  noise,  or  swell  the  train 

That  bother,  bless  and  throng  you. 

But  may  a  Presence  more  than  ours, 
Be  with  your  nuptial  meeting; 

Nor  on  the  new  home  cease  its  show'rs, 
While  Time  is  onward  fleeting. 

'Tis  strange,  alas!  that  'tis  so  strange — 
The  dear  ones  we  have  sainted, 

To  inerely  earthly  beings  change, 
When  once  we're  well  acquainted. 


POEMS. 

Life  often  leads  us  far  apart, 

Through  dreary,  wounding  places, 

Ere  love  has  learned  his  holiest  art, 
Or  sweetest  of  embraces. 

Forbearance  is  a  wholesome  cup, 
And,  by  it,  lives  are  blended; 

Well — there !  the  baby's  waking  up ! — 
But  then  my  sermon's  ended. 


TO  A  FLOWER 

APRIL  z8TH. 

Beautiful,  lonely,  snow-white  flow'r! 

Thou  hast  brightened  my  dusky  room. 
Many  a  sad  and  toilsome  hour, 

With  thy  innocence  and  perfume. 
No  one  is  here  to  scorn  the  tears 

That  will  rise  at  the  sight  of  thee — 
None  to  roll  back  the  sober  years, 

And  talk  of  the  good  old  times  with  me. 

Thou  art  my  only  treasure  now — 

Once  I'd  a  garden,  all  my  own. 
Loved  and  cherished,  but  not  as  thou — 

Dearer  treasures  were  not  yet  flown. 
And,  as  their  memories  come  and  go, 

And  I  gaze,  through  my  tears,  on  thee, 
These  days  are  hidden,  and  I  grow, 

Childish,  but  not  in  gayety. 


POEMS:  73 

Starry-eyed  flowers  bloomed  for  me  then, 

Petals  as  purely  white  as  thine — 
May  be  their  spirits  rose  again, 

Watchful  o'er  this  dark  path  of  mine. 
I  used  to  think  they  knew  me,  then, 

Used  to  woo  them  to  speak  to  me — 
Tell  them  my  plans,  and  think  they  smiled, 

Sharing  in  all  my  guileless  glee. 

Time  has  been  busy,  since  then,  I  trow, 

Filling  my  heart  with  anguish  and  sin ; 
I  have  wandered,  unguided,  till  now, 

Little  is  worthy  of  love,  within. 
On !  to  the  future,  Ambition  wooes, 

And  I  helplessly  follow  on : 
Fame  for  Love  is  a  poor  excuse, 

But  soul  must  have  something  to  feed  upon : 

Just  as  my  little  drooping  flow'r, 

Torn  from  its  mother,  and  the  light, 

Feeds  upon  water,  for  an  hour — 
Something  to  put  off  utter  night! 


74  POEMS. 

APRIL  30TH. 

Now  them  art  dying,  my  little  pet — 

What !  art  thou  tired  of  life  so  soon  ? 
Live  on !  nor  leave  me  in  darkness  yet — 

Live !  till  thy  morning  has  warmed  to  noon ! 

Other  flowers  may  bloom  and  fall, 

Flinging  a  gladness  o'er  my  heart ; 
But  thou  weavest,  beyond  them  all, 

Mem'ries  that- never  can  depart. 
And  I'll  cherish  thy  petals  brown, 

Sacredly,  all  life's  little  hour — 
Precious  dust  of  my  silent  one, — 

Once  my  beautiful,  snow-white  flow'r! 


EIGHTEEN. 

Another  changeful  year  has  fled, 

Though  scarce  it  seemed  begun — 
A  year  of  strife,  with  sorrow  rife, 

And  vict'ries  sin  hath  won. 
When  thoughtlessly  I  hailed  its  birth, 

With  wild  festivity, 
I  little  dreamed  the  agony 

The  "New  Year"  held  for  me. 

My  heart  was  young  and  light  and  free, 

Few  sorrows  yet  had  come, 
To  chill  my  careless,  childish  glee, 

And  blight  my  spirits'  bloom. 
Would  that  I  might  be  joyous  now, 

E'en  for  one  hour,  and  feel 
This  haunting  shadow  off  my  brow — 

This  weight  of  Sorrow's  seal. 


76  POEMS. 

Would  that  these  weary  feet  might  stray, 

Where  once,  in  happier  days, 
I  knelt  beside  my  mother's  knee, 

And  learned  my  Maker's  praise. 
Oh!  happy  hours!  Oh!  vanished  hours! 

I  weep,  but  must  not  weep — 
My  buried  treasures — hidden  flowers — 

For  me  the  angels  keep ! 

That  precious  form  is  laid  to  rest, 

But  Mem'ry  lingers  still, 
And  loves  to  linger  o'er  the  page 

My  mother's  actions  fill. 
Oh !  is  there  aught  that  shields  the  soul 

Whene'er  temptation's  flame, 
In  scorching  surges,  o'er  it  sweeps, 

It  is  that  sacred  name ! 

She  went — the  tend'rest  tie  is  riven — - 

And  she  is  happier  there ; 
I  would  not  call  her  down  from  Heaven 

To  breathe  earth's  blighting  air. 


POEMS.  77 

Yet,  could  she  know,  by  angel  art, 

The  wand'rings  of  her  child — 
Could  look  into  this  wayward  heart, 

And  see  its  passions  wild : 

If  tears  could  enter  Heaven,  a  tear 

Would  gem  that  angel's  eye, 
And  she  would  fly  to  earth,  and  bear 

My  spirit  to  the  sky. 
And  now  another  year  has  come — 

A  curious  blank  to  me 
Is  its  strange  freight  of  light  and  gloom — 

What  will  this  new  year  be? 


KY-AND-BY. 

On  the  beautiful  banks  of  the  river  of  Peace, 
There  are  flow'rs  that  can  never  decay ; 

There  the  brightness  of  fond  eyes  shall  nevermore 

cease, 
Or  death  bear  our  loved  ones  away. 

No  sickness  or  sorrow,  no  passion  or  pride, 
Have  a  place  in  that  blissful  abode ; 

In  gladness  immortal,  love,  side  by  side, 
We  shall  dwell  in  the  city  of  God. 

Oh !  sweet,  on  the  banks  of  that  mystical  stream, 

To  drink  in  the  music  of  Heaven ; 
And  remember  this  life  as  a  far  away  dream, 

Whose  follies  and  sins  are  forgiven! 


TO  J— . 

Thou  art  a  diamond ! — In  that  night, 
When  Sorrow  held  her  gloomy  sway, 

I  caught  the  glimmer  of  thy  light, 

And  hoped,  while  waiting  for  the  day ! 


ALL  ABOUT  BLACKBIRDS. 


FOR  THE  TWO  LITTLE  BOYS. 


Welcome  !  noisy,  merry  blackbirds ! 

Once  again  ye  herald  spring, 
With  your  gleeful,  roguish  chatter — 

What  a  world  of  joy  ye  bring! 
Dreams  of  violets  and  snowdrops, 

Springing  grass,  and  budding  trees 
Melt  away,  in  sweet  fulfilling, 

'Neath  the  music-laden  breeze ! 

Little  shining,  scolding  blackbirds ! 

Think  not  ye  are  strange  to  me; 
Many  a  time  I've  wept  to  save  you, 

In  a  childhood  agony ! 
I  have  argued  that  my  blackbirds 

Had  a  right  to  papa's  wheat : — 
"Sure — 'twas  cruel  to  deprive  them 

Of  what  little  they  could  eat. " 


8o  POEMS. 

And  I  volunteered,  my  birdies 

All  my  wondrous  help  to  give — 
Scaring  you  from  all  the  wheatfields — 

If  he'd  only  let  you  live. 
So,  the  long,  bright  days,  I  wandered, 

Up  and  down  the  mellow  field, 
Flags  and  rags ;  a  fright  to  blackbirds, 

Yet  my  birdies'  only  shield. 

Then  chirp  on  your  merry  music ! 

For,  though  now  a  woman  grown, 
Nought  shall  harm  the  thieving  rascals 

That  I  plead  for  once  alone. 
And  remember,  please,  while  peering 

Down  so  queerly  from  that  tree, 
That  your  grandpas  would  have  perished, 

If  it  had  not  been  for  me ! 


"ONE  MAN  MISSING." 

Do  ye  tell  me  "he  is  dead — 

That  the  glowing  hopes  I've  cherished, 
Since  our  nuptial  vows  were  said, 

In  the  battle  gloom  have  perished ! 
Then  farewell,  for  aye,  to  mirth — 

Let  my  bruised  heart  break  with  sorrow — 
Lay  me  in  the  still,  cold  earth — 

There's  no  meeting  on  the  morrow! 

I  can  see  him  on  the  field — 

None  to  soothe,  and  none  to  save  him — 
Dying,  where  he  would  not  yield, 

From  the  wounds  a  traitor  gave  him. 
I  can  feel  his  thirst  and  pain, 

See  him  pale  and  sink  and  languish, — 
See  him  prone  among  the  slain, 

In  his  depth  of  dying  anguish. 


82  POEMS. 

Then  away !  your  songs  of  glee — 
Dancing  feet,  and  merry  seeming ! 

What  is  all  your  joy  to  me, 
,       With  this  woe  upon  me  streaming? 

Let  my  wounded  spirit  weep, 

Till  its  throes  are  numb  with  sorrow ! 

In  the  dark  earth  hide  me  deep ! — 
There's  no  meeting  on  the  morrow ! 


MRS.  SHODDY. 

Poor  Mrs.  Shoddy !  what  ado 

You  make,  with  lace  and  feathers; 

To  one  so  lately  fledged  as  you, 
They  seem  the  worst  of  tethers. 

You  try  to  speak — your  voice  is  loud — 
You  straightway  have  to  calm  it : 

Your  smothered  Self  resists  its  shroud, 
Nor  Egypt  could  embalm  it. 

The  ruche  around  your  chubby  chin, 
Would  grace,  as  well,  your  poodle ; 

And  diamond  rings,  and  diamond  pin, 
But  plainer  speak  the  noodle. 

You've  stepped  upon  your  costly  gown, 
And,  lack-a-day!  have  torn  it; 

And  loudly  tell  us,  with  a  frown, 
It  was  the  first  you'd  worn  it. 


84  POEMS. 

You  roll  your  eyes,  and  spread  your  train. 
And  sweep  us  like  a  duster; 

Till  we  are  forced  to  smile  again, 
In  wonder  at  your  bluster. 

That  little  woman,  plain  and  fair, 

In  dress  that's  almost  fady, 
Wears  not  a  jewel,  here  or  there, 

And  yet  we  call  her  lady. 

Not  days  of  wealth,  but  years  of  worth 
Must  bring  the  place  you  covet : 

While  you're  a  worm,  remain  on  earth, 
Nor  seek  to  soar  above  it. 

The  brightest  names,  the  richest  lives, 

The  bluest  blood  in  story, 
Are  those  of  quiet,  plain  housewives, 

Whose  dress  was  not  their  glory. 

With  them  the  pudding-stick  and  broom 
Were  friendly,  useful  neighbors ; 

And,  at  the  spinning-wheel  and  loom, 
They  gloried  in  their  labors. 


POEMS.  85 

That  day  of  toil,  of  course,  is  passed, 

But  still  their  daughters  linger, 
With  modest  eye,  and  thoughtful  cast, 

And  ever  helpful  linger. 

You  know  them  by  their  gentle  "  No, " 

Or  gentler  acquiescence ; 
They  have  a  way  of  lisfning  so, 

They  shame  your  noisy  presence. 

If  plainly  clad,  to  garments'  hem, 

They  do  not  seem  to  know  it : 
If  crowned  with  diamond  diadem, 

They  do  not  try  to  show  it. 

Then,  Mrs.  Shoddy,  cease  to  strive, 

Nor  chase  us  with  your  basket ; 
For  common  folks  delight  to  give 

To  those  who  do  not  ask  it. 

Nor  hope  to  gain  the  boon  you  ask, 

Before  your  worth  deserves  it : 
Still  then  remains  the  weightier  task, 

For  worth  alone  preserves  it. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  LITTLE  CHILD. 

Oh!  vain  is  the  fond  heart's  weeping, 
And  the  gloom  of  these  heavy  hours; 

For  our  darling  boy  lies  sleeping, 
With  the  rest  of  the  summer  flow'rs ! 

No  sin  or  suff'ring  or  sorrow 

May  ever  his  dear  eyes  dim ; 
No  grief,  that  may  visit  our  morrow, 

Can  take  one  rapture  from  him! 

So  Faith,  'mid  our  sorrow,  sits  singing, 

And  will  sing,  through  the  dark  days  to  come ; 

Till  we  hear  his  sweet  voice,  again,  ringing 
Our  welcome  to  God's  sweet  home ! 


A  SIGH. 

Strange,  how  fitful,  frail  and  fleeting, 

All  our  earthly  pleasures  seem ! — 
Ere  we  know  them,  swift  retreating, 

Like  the  mem'ry  of  a  dream. 
Brightest  eyes  will  lose  their  brightness, 

Sunny  locks  be  turned  to  grey — 
Bounding  footsteps  lose  their  lightness — 

All  that's  earthly,  change,  decay. 

Life  has  very  much  of  sadness, 

Very  much  of  grief  and  pain — 
Much  to  chill  and  check  our  gladness, 

Sicken  heart,  and  weary  brain. 
Fondest  hearts  will  grow  forgetful, 

Forms  we  love  will  turn  to  dust, — 
Friendship's  chain  be  rudely  broken, 

Or,  forgotten,  dim  with  rust. 


88  POEMS. 

Sad  indeed  would  be  our  portion, 

Were  our  hopes  all  centered  here, — 
Souls,  expanding  and  immortal,    , 

Chained  within  this  narrow  sphere ; 
But  a  brighter,  clearer  prospect, 

To  our  toiling  race  is  giv'n, — 
Lasting  bliss,  and  purer  pleasures, 

Peace  and  truth  are  found  in  Heav'n. 


POEM  DELIVERED  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  SOCIETY  HALL 

OF   THE 

ECLECTICS  £$  ATHENIADES, 

ALBION  COLLEGE,  APRIL  1869. 

We  come !  we  come !  from  the  roar  of  the  billows, 
That  beat  the  gray  rocks  of  the  New  England  shore ; 

We  come  from  the  West,  from  the  wide  stretching 
prairies, 

Where  wild  deer  and  buffalo  graze  at  our  door: 

From  the  far  distant  hills,  where  the  rocks  are  of  silver, 

From    streamlets    where    diamonds    and    gold   lie 
aglow ; 

From  the  northland  of  song,  from  the  haunt  of  the 

red  man, 
Where  the  silvery  birch,  and  the  cottonwood  grow. 

We  come  from  the  shore  where  the  orange  tree  blos 
soms, 
And  the  coral  reef  lurks  in  the  smile  of  the  sea ; 

WTe    come    from    the    fields    where    we    offered    our 

'brothers, 
That  this  might,  in  truth,  be  "the  land  of  the /reef" 


9o 


POEMS. 


We  come  in  our  youth,  with  a  life-time  before  us, 
With  garlands  and  music,  and  festival  glee : 

No  repining  of  ours  shall  invade  the  glad  chorus, 
But  the  night  shall  be  bright  as  the  surf  of  the  sea. 

And  we,  in  mid-age,  from  the  cares  that  have  bound 

us, 
Come  home,  with  glad  hearts,  for  an  hour,  to  be 

free, 

And  echo  the  song  that  is  ringing  around  us — 
"The  night  shall  be  bright  as  the  surf  of  the  sea. " 

We   forget,   for   the   while,    all   the  wrecks  that  are 

scattered 
In  the  caves  of  the  sea,  'neath  the  sun-tinted  foam ; 

The   gay  dreams   dispelled,  and   the    darling  hopes 

shattered, 

Forget,    while   we    answer   the    sweet    "Welcome 
home ! " 

And  we,  at  the  gloaming,  return  from  our  roaming, 

With  hearts  more  content  than  when  life  was  half 

o'er; 
A  sweeter  reposing  steals  on,  at  life's  closing, 

And  we  learn  to  live  over  the  bright  days  of  yore. 


POEMS.  91 

Oh !  the  beautiful  past,  with  its  archway  of  sunshine, 
That  flushes  the  haze  with  a  halo  of  gold ! 

Oh !  magical  haven  of  dreams  that  are  vanished ! 
Sweet  Eden  of  thought  for  a  life  almost  told ! 

The  joy  of  to-night  is  a  gleam  from  its  portals; 

This  music,  a  chime  from  that  Aiden  of  earth ! 
So  we,  at  the  gloaming  come  back  from  our  roaming, 

To  mingle  our  song  with  the  holiday  mirth. 

Yet  not  as  of  old  do  we  gather  our  numbers, 
Where  daily  we  climed  up  the  fabulous  "hill — " 

A  temple  more  meet  we  turn  gladly  to  greet, 

And  the  dear  circle  here  makes  it  home  for  us  still. 

What  gems  can  we  bring  to  most  fitly  adorn  it? 

Shall  diamonds  and  rubies  flash  envious  light? 
Shall  drapings  of  damask  and  gold  half  enclose  it, 

And  lend  to  the  day  the  soft  splendors  of  night! 

Yes,  diamonds  of  thought,  with  their  keen,  cutting 

polish, 
To  penetrate  darkness,  and  error  invade ; 

And  rubies  of  kindness,  to  soften  and  brighten 
The  channel  the  merciless  diamond  has  made. 


92  POEMS. 

But  drape  it  with  evergreen,  twine  it  with  Mowers, 
Let  nought  the  free  life -breath  of  knowledge  arrest ; 

Then  muses  shall  gather  their  bright  numbers  hither, 
Our  words  to  inspire  at  the  gentlest  behest. 

Let  Science  and  History  guard  at  its  portals ; 

Let  Poesy  strew  it  with  garlands  of  song ; 
Let  Art  carve  its  cornices,  people  its  niches, 

And  whisper  sweet  music  its  pillars  among. 

Let  Truth  sit  enthroned,  in  her  meekness  and  white 
ness, 
Where  weekly  we  gather,  her  stores  to  unfold, 

Then  charming  our  temple,  and  peerless  her  treasures, 
More  brilliant  and  lasting  and  precious  than  gold. 

But  whence  the  foundation  for  temple  so  wondrous? 
Shall  columns  so  fair  plant  their  feet  in  the  earth? 

Shall  Time  touch   their  beauty,   and  mar  them  with 

mildew, 
And  sink  in  decay  all  their  splendor  and  worth? 

From  the  hum  of  the  past  come  the  voices  of  millions, 
Who  built  on  the  earth,  but  whose  building  was  vain  ; 

Their  marble  is  dust,  and  their  laurels  have  perished, 
And  nothing  is  left  but  this  hopeless  refrain : — 


POEMS.  93 

"Ambition"  our  guide,  and  earth's  honor  our  goal, 

We  have  toiled  but   in  vain  through  a. wearisome 

strife ; 
For  Fame  has  forgotten  our  names  to  enroll, 

Though  we  flattered  and  wooed  her,  and  gave  her 
our  life. 

We  have  searched  into  Nature's  mysterious  tome, 
We  have  drawn  the  quivering  flash  from  heaven, 

And  laughed  at  its  tame  and  obedient  path, 
O'er  the  towers  and  forests  it  erst  had  riven ! 

We  have  grasped  the  storm,  in  its  howl  and  shriek, 
Have  measured  its  power,  and  scorned  its  might ; 

We  have  tortured  the  rocks  till  we  made  them  speak, 
And  tell  us  the  story  of  Time's  whole  flight ! 

The  wondrous  world  that  we  could  not  win, 

We  have  weighed,  and  measured  the  land  and  sea ; 

And  challenged  the  very  stars  to  hide 
Their  mazy  paths  in  immensity! 

Like  a  seer  of  old,  to  the  list'ning  land, 
We  have  told  the  days  of  a  darkened  sun, 

Or  a  comet's  course,  and,  as  though  in  our  hand 
The  universe  circled,  the  work  was  done! 


94  POEMS. 

We  have  traced  with  chisel  the  clust'ring  vine, 
The  column  of  beauty  to  crown  and  enwreathe, 

And  statues,  so  teeming  with  mimic  life, 
We  almost  listened  to  hear  them  breathe ! 

We  have  caught  the  pencil,  and  prisoned  the  blaze 
Of  clouds  that  pillowed  the  sinking  sun; 

And  mellowed  his  rays  in  the  silvery  haze 
That  lingers  around  when  the  day  is  done ! 

We  have  swept  the  lyre  till  a  wondering  world 
Stood  still,  entranced  by  the  strain  sublime ; 

We  thought  it  would  echo  till  earth  was  no  more, 
And  live  to  murmur  the  dirge  of  Time ! 

Oh,  vain,  all  the  hoping  and  toil  of  a  life ! 

The  strings  are  all  silent,  the  statue  o'erthrown, 
The  column  and  capital  mingle  their  dust, 

And  the  sun-tinted  canvas  lies  mold'ring  unknown 

The  knowledge  we  gained  intermingles  with  time; 

And  temples  like  ours  lift  their  arches  of  pride ; 
But  their  builder  shall  sleep  in  oblivious  deep, 

If  self  is  his  god,  and  ambition  his  guide!" 


POEMS.  95 

Oh,  Charity !  beautiful,  gentle  and  holy ! 

Accept  the  poor  homage  we  yield  at  thy  feet, 
Come,  dwell  in  our  circle,  unite  and  inspire  us, 

To  make  for  each  pillar  a  pedestal  meet ! 

Oh,  Liberty!  sacred,  benign  and  majestic! 

Of  all  men  alike  the  beloved  and  desired, — 
Come  breathe  in  our  counsels,  and  make  this  a  temple 

Where  statesman  are  nourished,  and  patriots  in 
spired  ! 

Oh!  Author  of  Liberty!  Father  of  Charity! 

Guardian  of  all  that  is  sacred  and  dear! 
Still  low  are  our  aims,  and  in  vain  all  our  labors, 

If  thou  smile  not  upon  us,  or  meet  with  us  here ! 

Where  self  sits  enthroned,  may  she  sink  in  confusion, 
And  low  at  thy  feet  bow  her  penitent  knee ; 

Oh !  then  may  we  bend,  a  fraternity  holy, 
In  labor  for  man,  and  in  homage  to  Thee ! 

Inspire  thou  our  hearts,  and  when  ages  have  perished 
Our  names  shall,  unsought,  immortality  find : 

More  lasting  than  laurels  of  Fame's  partial  weaving, 
Our  deeds  shall  live  on,  in  the  love  of  mankind! 


THE  SOUL  CAN  NE'ER  GROW  OLD. 

I  see  the  threads  of  silver  gleam, 
Above  my  forehead,  now, 

And  count  the  lines,  as  in  a  dream, 
That  sink  upon  my  brow. 

I  know,  a  few  short  years  ago, 
These  locks  were  sunny  gold ; 

This  forehead  too  was  smqoth,  I  trow, 
Yet  I'm  not  growing  old ! 

Not  growing  old — ah  no !  my  heart 

Is  in  its  spring-time  yet : 
It  will  not  let  its  bloom  depart ; 

It  wi/l  its  years  forget. 

Why  will  ye  check  your  guileless  mirth. 
When  my  bent  form  appears — 

Would  ye  keep  all  the  joy  of  earth. 
And  give  me  naught  but  tears. 


POEMS.  97 

I  hear  you  sweetly  warble  out 

Your  dear  familiar  chime ; 
And  I  would  fain  repeat  the  shout, 

As  in  the  olden  time. 

Ye  know  not  what  ye  speak,  who  say 
Years  wrap  the  heart  in  gloom : 

Our  lives,  like  any  other  day, 
Grow  brighter  towards  the  tomb. 

And  Time  has  flung  across  my  sky 

His  wealth  of  vap'rous  gold, 
To  gladden  hopes  that  cannot  die — 

I  am  not  growing  old. 

Come  hither,  children !  How  I  prize 

The  flick'ring  power  still 
To  look  into  your  gleeful  eyes, 

And  hear  your  laughter  trill! 

Ye  'mind  me  of  another  band, 

That  blessed  another  hearth : 
Alas !  as  pictures  on  the  sand, 

They  vanished  from  the  earth! 


98  POEMS. 

These  withered  lips  drank  in  their  love ; 

It  made  my  sunshine  then : 
This  heart  grew  strong  to  work,  and  strove 

To  make  them  noble  men. 

They  blessed  my  patient,  loving  care, 

But,  one  by  one,  they  fled : 
With  them  there  is  no  need  of  prayer, — 

I  do  not  call  them  dead. 

And  soon,  I,  too,  shall  yield  my  breath, 

And  earth  my  form  enfold : 
The  ripe'ning  soul  will  drop  its  sheath, 

But  'tis  not  growing  old. 

Then  children  gather,  round  my  knee 

Your  heads  of  sunny  gold : 
Your  mirth  is  music  still  to  me : — 

The  swtl  can  ne'er  grow  old ! 


AT  LAST. 

Anna,  musing  at  the  gateway, 

Leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand ; — 

Watched  the  golden,  sunset  glory 
Turn  the  earth  to  fairy  land; — 

Watched  the  dying  sunlight  glisten 
On  her  little  wedding  band. 

Homeward  marching,  worn  and  dusty, 
Came  a  weary,  soldier-throng : 

Soiled  and  tattered  were  their  garments, 
Fitful  were  their  bursts  of  song : 

Some  were  very  faint  and  feeble, 
And  with  anguish  crept  along. 

Anna,  weeping,  at  the  gateway. 

Thought  how  Herbert's  name  she  read, 
Years  ago,  among  the  missing, 

And  she  knew  he  must  be  dead ; 
So,  while  they  were  marching  past  her, 

Anna,  weeping,  bowed  her  head. 


POEMS. 

One  there  was,  the  last  and  faintest, 

Fell,  upon  the  dusty  way; 
No  one  heeded  him  save  Anna, 

But  she  sprang  to  where  he  lay — 
Gently  bathed  the  blanching  forehead — 

Wooed  the  flut'ring  soul  to  stay. 

Slow  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  her — 
What  a  quenchless  love-light  shone, 

In  the  dying  gaze  he  gave  her! — 
Faithful  Herbert's  march  was  done  ! 

"  You  will  come  to  me,  my  darling]— 
Low  he  whispered  and  was  gone. 

Anna,  musing  at  the  gateway, 
Gazing  far  through  sunset  gold, 

Weeps  no  more  in  doubt,  though  watching 
Till  the  sky  is  gray  and  cold — 

Murmurs  "  You  will  meet  me  darling, 
When  the  pearly  gates  unfold!" 


NEVER  MIND! 

Fond  Mem'ry,  in  her  kindness, 
Will  smile  upon  our  blindness, 

And  wrap  these  little  sorrows  in  her  robe 

of  misty  gold ; 
And  we'll  delight  to  linger, 
And  point  a  wrinkled  finger 

Back  to  these  days,  and   call'  them    "  The 
blessed  time  of  old.  " 


CONCERNING  A  LAWYER'S  HANDWRITING. 

One  night,  when  my  poor,  patient  Pegasus  drooped, 
'Neath  his  side  saddle  load,  and  fell  dozing, 

My  brain,  with  a  protest,  to  common  things  stooped, 
And  my  unwilling  pen  fell  to  prosing. 

I  answered  some  letters — among  them  was  yours, 
My  J— ,  full  of  "Dears,"  "Doves"  and  "Darlings;" 

And,  like  a  huge,  cat-worried  tangle  of  silk, 
It  held  some  miraculous  snarlings. 

The  wrinkles  I  gathered  that  terrible  night 

The  day  of  Doom  never  will  frighten 
Quite  off  from  my  forehead ;  but,  after  it  all, 

I  had  myself  still  to  enlighten. 

Your  g"s  stood  agape,  and  your  1's  shook  their  fists, 

And  seemed  very  wrathy  about  it; 
And  one  horrid  "z,"  stuck  in  spatters  and  mists, 

Seemed  rising  to  smite  him  who  wrote  it. 


POEMS. 


I03 


It  was  just  about  then  that  I  let  the  world  slide, 

And  away  to  the  land  of  nod  drifted, 
And  dreamed,  among  many  strange  matters  beside, 

That  the  latch  of  my  sanctum  was  lifted; 

And  in  stepped  an  old  man,  greyheaded  and  worn, 
And  he  walked  with  a  twitch,  and  a  worry, 

Which  said,  very  plainly,  'twas  business  he  meant, 
And  he'd  like  to  be  off  in  a  hurry. 

He'd  a  basket  on  one  arm,  a  cane  in  his  hand, 
And  his  beard  was  full,  flowing  and  hoary ; 

And  he  trembled  and  twitched,  but  continued  to  stand, 
While  he  told  me  his  singular  story; — 

From  the  city  where  all  of  earth's  printing  was  done, 
The  type  and  the  presses  had  vanished! 

The  Devil  had  probably  wanted  some  fun, 
And  the  hopes  of  a  year  or  two  banished. 

For  an  accident  happened,  as  queer  as  the  one 
Which  bothered  the  masons  at  Babel; 

And,  to  think  how  "that  old-fashioned  printing"  was 

done, 
Not  a  man  in  the  world  was  yet  able. 


104  POKMS. 

The  making  of  paper  was,* too, -a  "lost  art"- 
And  of  ink- — but  he  told  me,  enraptured, 

That  the  old  stock  would  sparingly  hold  out  a  year, 
When  they  hoped  the  said  arts  would  be  captured. 

They  once  thought  they  had  them,   and  made  a  fair 

start, 
But  they  cut  most  incredible  capers ; 

So  the  chemists  were  taking  the  old  sort  apart, 
And  reporting  their  luck  in  the  papers. 

Meanwhile,  they  were  doing  as  well  as  they  could, 

By  gathering  old,  useless  pages, 
And  cutting  the  letters  apart,  and,  on  wood, 

fit-pasting  the  wisdom  of  sages. 

The  boards  were,  of  course,  of  convenient  size — 
(Wide  awake,  it  looks  rather  appalling, 

But  it  seemed  quite  a  natural  thing  in  my  sleep,) 
Then  he  told  me  his  object  in  calling. 

It  was  for  old  manuscript,  letters  or  books, 

Or  anything  written  or  printed ; 
He'd  pay  a  round  sum  for  a  bushel  or  so — 

A  fortune  in  fact — so  he  hinted. 


POEMS.  105 

I  thought  of  the  poverty  barring  our  way 

To  the  halter — or  altar,  you  call  it— 
And  of  many  sad  things,  till  I  could'nt  say  Nay, 

To  the  plea  of  my  poor,  shrunken  wallet. 

I  ran,  and  brought  forward  a  bushel,  or  more, 

Of  your  letters,  I  blush  to  confess  it ; 
But  "if  'murder'  is  in  them,  it  never  'will  out,'  " 

I  thought,  "for  no  mortal  could  guess  it." 

He  took  them,  and  solemnly  turned  them  about, 
Top  side  up  or  down — 'twas  no  matter; 

He  looked  through  his  spectacles,  'neath  them,  above — 
While  my  heart  went,  of  course,  pit  a  patter. 

He  answered  at  last,  and  the  answer  he  made 
Was  intended,  no  doubt,  to  be  civil : — 

"Well — yes  *  *  *   *  There's  a  'd'  or  two  here,  that  I 

think 
1  could  use  to  commence  the  word  'Devil' !" 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  DOOM. 

Down  through  the  glowing  West,  the  sinking  sun 
Swept  on,  with  flaming  banners  all  unfurled : 

Though  glories  ever  crowned  the  course  he'd  run, 
The  grandest  lingered  'round  the  dark'ning  world. 

The  distant  hum  of  children's  voices  fell 
Upon  the  ear,  and  note  of  Whip-poor-will 

Its  music  blended  with  the  tinkling  bell 

Of  sheep  that  grazed  upon  the  burnished  hill. 

Deep  in  the  cooling  stream,  the  toil  of  day 
All  past,  unyoked,  the  thirsty  cattle  stood : 

The  whistling  farmer  trode  his  homeward  way, 
With  hardened  hand,  but  honest  heart  and  good. 

The  gaudy  butterfly,  with  wearied  wing, 

Hid  from  the  dew  beneath  some  nodding  rose, 

And  earth  had  all  her  share  of  everything 

That  helps  the  nameless  charm  of  daylight's  close. 


POEMS.  107 

I  saw  and  heard  all,  yet  exulted  not, 

As,  with  rebellious  heart,  and  footstep  slow, 

Unthinkingly,  I  sought  the  quiet  spot, 

Where  oft  I'd  watched  the  summer  sunset  glow. 

For  earth-born  passions,  hourly  through  my  life, 
Had  swayed  my  struggling  spirit  by  their  might ; 

And  I  had  vainly  promised  that  the  strife 
Should  end,  next  hour,  in  vict'ry  of  the  right. 

And  once  in  rashness  had  I  dared  to  swear 
To  keep  this  promise,  faithfully  and  well ; 

And,  in  the  depth  of  soul  accusing  there, 
Had  called  on  Heaven  to  curse  me  if  I  fell! 

I  fell !  and  aught  that  human  heart  could  know, 
Of  self-accusing  anguish,  scorched  my  soul ; 

A  sullen  ocean  of  consuming  wo, 

Whose  billows  nevermore  could  cease  to  roll. 

What  recked  I  that  the  birds  and  waters  sang, 
And  childish  laugh  my  would-be  deaf  ear  cross'd? 

Each  voice  more  awful  than  a  demon's  rang — 
Were  they  not  pure!  and  I  forever  lost? 


I08  POEMS. 

Long  did  I  gaze  into  the  glowing  sky. 

Whose  burning  depths  seemed  flaming  wrath  at  me ; 
And  longed  yet  feared  to  pray  that  I  might  die, 

For  what  was  death,  to  one  accursed,  like  me.' 

And  slowly  still  the  darkness  gathered  'round, 

Till  sight  of  spire  and  cot  and  wood  were  gone, — 

Till  lengthened  shadows  wrapped  the  dewy  ground, 
And  still  the  angry  heavens  kept  flaming  on ! 

When  oh !  what  awful  peal  rent  earth  and  sky ! 

What  burning,  vap'ry  billows  filled  the  air! 
How  rose  the  vales  in  dizzy  cliffs  on  high ! 

What  wails  of  woe!  what  holdings  of  despair! 

The  trembling  mountains  bowed  them  in  the  dust; 

The  frightened  ocean  backward  swiftly  sped ; 
And  tortured  earth  upheaved  her  solid  crust, 

Unpeopling  all  the  cities  of  the  dead  ! 

And  forth  they  came,  a  pale  and  silent  band, 
Till  Heav'n  aroused  the  slumb'nng  spirits'  glow, 

And  called  the  faithful  to  the  blest  "right  hand," 
And  left  the  shrieking  guilty  to  their  woe ! 


POEMS.  109 

Yet  all  unnoticed  and  unharmed  /stood, 

While  swaying  millions,  parting,  swept  along: — 

The  only  one,  of  all  the  multitude, 

Who  seemed  to  have  no  place  in  either  throng. 

Spellbound  and  mute,  I  watched  them  as  they  passed, 

Each  brow  prophetic  of  its  destiny, 
Until  the  restless  clouds  enwrapped  the  last — 

Then  shrieked — "Oh  God!  hast  thou  for< gotten  me? 

Is  this  my  "curse"?     High  rose  the  trembling  plain, 
On  which  I  stood,  to  mountain  crest,  that  brake, 

With  solid  base,  a  moaning,  crimson  main, 
Of  molten  rock — 'twas  all  Jehovah  spake ! 

And  sullen  clouds  rose  from  the  flaming  wave ; 

And  time  wore  strangely  on — no  day- — no  night — 
No  light  save  that  the  glowing  ocean  gave, 

For  darkened  heavens  refused  to  mark  its  flight. 

I  listened  to  the  melodies  afar 

Of  chanting  spirits,  speeding  on  their  way, 
To  drink  the  glories  of  some  unseen  star — 

Each  soul  a  heav'n — God's  love  its  perfect  day. 


no  POEMS. 

And  cries  of  anguish  and  despair  arose 
Unceasingly  from  Sorrow's  dark  abode ; 

And  I  would  fain  have  plunged  me  in  its  woes, 
Could  I  have  fled  from  thoughts  of  peace  and  God. 

I  thought  of  childhood's  joy,  and  guileless  glee, 
My  peaceful  home,  and  mother's  lullaby, 

And  little  prayers  she  taught  me  at  her  knee, 
That  I  might  nobly  live,  and  gladly  die. 

And  thus  I  lived  and  thought,  a  conscious  thing, 
While  sunless  ages  dragged,  unnumbered,  by; 

No  pain  from  heat  or  cold  or  hungering — 
All  else  forgotten  in  the  wish  to  die! 

And,  as  those  ages  passed,  the  seething  main 
Gave  up  its  furnace  heat,  and  ceased  its  flow; 

And,  o'er  the  arid,  adamantine  plain, 

Clouds  rested  from  their  wand'rings  to  and  fro. 

And  cooling  showers  fell  upon  the  earth, 
Till  oceans,  in  their  majesty  and  might, 

Seemed   fraught  with  knowledge,  and  to  mourn  the 

dearth 
Of  their  own  waters,  and  their  dusky  light. 


POEMS.  Ill 

And  still  I  lived,  and  knew  that  ages  rolled, 
For  fertile  valleys  filled  the  ocean's  bed, 

And  forests  girt  the  mountains,  as  of  old, 
And  hum  of  insect  broke  the  silence  dread. 

And  paler  grew  the  heavy  mist,  that  hung, 
In  dismal  winding  sheets  of  dusky  gray ; 

Till  clouds  of  ancient,  snowy  splendor  swung, 
And  earth  exulted  in  a  sunlit  day. 

Oh  joy!  Oh  matchless  joy !  with  starving  soul, 
To  feast  upon  the  glories  pictured  there ! 

Oh  agony !  to  know  each  burst  of  hope 

But  plunged  me  deeper  in  my  mad  despair! 

The  laughing  water  leaped  with  limpid  bound, 
And  fragrance  born  of  Heaven  filled  the  breeze ; 

And  flow'rs  of  matchless  beauty  wrapped  the  ground, 
While  holy  music  echoed  'mong  the  trees. 

And  creatures  came,  of  wond'rous,  glorious  mold 
In  whom  a  spark  of  God's  own  spirit  dwelt, 

With  symmetry  of  form  and  soul  untold, 

Whose  joy  was  full,  when  at  his  feet  they  knelt. 


112  POK.MS. 

No  base  desires  confined  them  to  the  dust ; 

There  was  no  prayer  and  toil  for  "daily  bread "- 
No  hunger,  and,  in  actions  good  and  just. 

Life  sped,  and  no  one  sorrowed  for  the  dead. 

There  was  no  death,  but  one  immortal  youth. 

For  those  to  whom  was  giv'n  the  chastened  sod ; 
And  an  eternal  progress  unto  truth — 

A  nearer  likeness  to  their  father — God. 

And  o'er  the  land  or  gushing  waves  they  strayed, 
In  raiment  spotless  as  the  seraphs  wear, 

Or  in  the  deep  sea's  pearly  chambers  played, 
Or  swept  in  brightness  through  the  upper  air. 

Oh !  awful  destiny !  that  I  must  see 

And  feel  and  know  the  heav'n  on  every  side, 
And  yet  endure  through  all  eternity 

"Oh  Righteous    One!    Too  C;RKAT  my   curse!"  1 
cried. 

"I  never  dreamed  that  Heav'n  itself  could  pour, 
On  bold,  blasphemous  soul,  a  doom  like  this! 

Ye  oceans!  rise  and  flood  the  peaceful  shore! 

Fall  on  me,  mountains!  Hide  me  from  such  bliss!" 


POEMS.  .113 

Mute — mute — the  solemn  hills,  in  grand  repose, 

Saw  not,  heard  not  my  awful  agony; 
While  joyously  the  crystal  waves  arose, 

And  mocked  my  wretched  being  with  their  glee. 

Prone,  on  despairing  knee,  I  raised  my  prayer, 
Imploring  pity  from  the  shining  throng, 

Who  glided  brightly  'round  me  everywhere, 
On  kindly  mission,  and  with  thankful  song. 

Think  ye  they  heard  me?     In  such  happy  lot, 
What  could  they  know  of  misery  like  mine? 

They  saw  not,  heard  not^-utterly  forgot 
Anew  I  felt  the  weight  of  wrath  divine. 

But,  in  one  life,  'twere  vain  to  tell  such  curse — 

The  pangs  by  which  my  tortued  soul  was  wrung : — 

As  well  might  man  crowd  back  the  universe, 
Into  the  nothingness  from  which  it  sprung! 

Long  had  all  hopes  and  strivings,  that  belong 
To  beings  yet  the  object  of  God's  care, 

Been  still :  the  ages  dragged  their  length  along, 
And  yet  all  hope  lay  slumb'ring  in  despair. 


114  POEMS. 

When  list !  a  voice  of  sweetest  melody, 
In  rapt'rous  measure  breaks  upon  my  ear, 

And  nearer  conies !    Oh  joy!    it  speaks  to  me — 
Oh !  wondrous  joy ! — it  utters  words  of  cheer. 

It  bids  me  rouse  my  drooping,  fainting  heart, 
Above  its  grief,  to  aspirations  pure  : — 

To  live  among  my  kind  and  do  jny  part, 
And  win  a  happiness  that  shall  endure. 

It  tells  me  that  the  greatness  of  my  crime 
Was  trusting  self  alone  in  trial's  hour, 

Forgetful  of  the  One  who,  through  all  time, 
Has  proved  Himself  the  only  source  of  pout r. 

It  wooes  me  back  to  life ;  again  I  hear 

The  cherished  voices  of  the  friends  of  youth; 

And  mingle  with  the  forms  my  heart  held  dear, 
In  the  blest  hours  of  infancy  and  truth ; 

And  bless  our  Father  that  the  little  gleam 
Of  what  his  just  and  holy  wrath  might  be, 

Was  but  a  fancy  wild — a  haunting  dream — 
Sent  down  in  boundless  love  to  vanquish  me. 


POEMS.  115 

And  humbly,  now,  with  penitence,  I  bow 
My  chastened  will  to  thine,  oh!  Holy  One! 

My  dearest  wish,  to  be  pure— Jen  as  Thou; — 
My  loftiest  prayer — Thy  will,  not  mine  be  done ! 

Thou  sacred  Dove!  Come,  fold  thy  peaceful  wings, 
And  let  me  ever  feel  this  blissful  rest ! 

Saved, — saved — at  last,  from  those  dark  wanderings, 
No  earthly  pow'r  can  tear  Thee  from  my  breast. 

Let  matchless  honors  cluster  'round  thy  throne ! 

Let  hills  and  vales  untiring  shout  thy  praise  1 
Let  earth  and  ocean  cease  their  strifes,  and  own 

Thy  pow'r  and  majesty  in  rapt'rous  lays. 

Praise  Him,  ye  countless  worlds!  ye  orbs  of  light 

To  him  your  loftiest  hosannas  raise ! 
Awake !  ye  suns  and  systems !  and  unite 

In  one  harmonious  anthem  to  his  praise ! 

Praise  Him,  my  soul !  when  wasted  skies  grow  dim, 

And  robe  their  glory  in  eternal  night. 
Praise  Him  my  soul !  beloved  and  saved  by  Him — 

Swell  praises  to  his  glory,  grace  and  might ! 


Il6  POEMS. 

Ye  angels !  strike  your  golden  harps  anew '. 

Let  joyful  praises  gladden  your  abode! 
Teach  me  the  songs  that  best  shall  praise  Him  too, 

Through  all  the  endless  ages  of  our  God ! 

JUNE  1864. 


THE  THOUGHT  THAT  CLINGS. 

There's  gladness  in  the  thought  of  home, 

'Tis  felt,  go  where  we  will; 
The  cradle  spot,  where'er  we  roam, 

Hath  blessing  for  us  still. 
Some  old,  familiar  note  of  bird, 

Whose  echoes  'round  us  flow, 
Reminds  us  of  the  songs  we  heard, 

Far  in  the  long  ago  : 
Of  birds  that  in  the  window  sung, 

With  glad  hearts,  all  the  day ; 
Or,  wild,  among  the  branches  swung, 

Above  us,  while  at  play. 

The  dying,  golden  autumn  leaves 

Come  softly  rustling  down, 
And  earth,  now  bright  and  beautiful, 

Will  soon  be  sere  and  brown. 
And,  through  the  mellow,  purple  haze, 

A  picture  dim  is  seen, 


Il8  POEMS. 

Of  other  Indian  summer  days, 

When  life  was  yet  serene; 
And  children's  voices  warble  out 

Their  dear,  familiar  chime ; 
And  we  are  joining  in  the  shout, 

As  in  the  olden  time. 

We  shut  the  doors  at  eventide, 

And  seek  the  cheering  blaze, 
And  think  about  the  ingleside 

We  sought  in  younger  days : 
We  trace  the  pictures  in  the  coals, 

With  sad  and  thoughtful  brow, 
And  think  of  hopes  we  dreamed  of  f/ien,- 

All  dust  and  ashes  now! 

And  silently  along  we  dream, 
Till  all  the  forms  that  blest 

The  days  when  life  was  brightest,  seem 
To  come  at  our  behest. 

Again  we're  gathered  'round  the  fire, 

As  in  the  time  of  old ; 
And  childish  sport  beguiles  the  hour, 

And  fairy  tales  are  told. 


POEMS.  119 

And,  though  a  thousand  times  Grandma, 

In  fondness,  tell  them  o'er, 
We're  just  as  pleased  with  them  as  though 

They'd  ne'er  been  heard  before. 
A  mother's  love,  upon  our  mirth, 

Beams  like  a  holy  light, 
To  warn  us  from  the  sin  of  earth, 

And  win  us  to  the  right. 

And  now  the  evening's  sport  is  hushed, 

As,  from  the  sacred  page, 
A  father  reads  the  precious  words, 

Which  ruled  his  youth  and  age. 
The  rising  hymn,  in  harmony, 

Speaks  praise  and  gladness  there ; 
And  then,  with  reverence,  we  kneel, 

In  humble,  earnest  prayer. 
And  then  the  goodnight  kiss  is  pressed 

Upon  each  youthful  brow, 
By  lips,  to  us,  immortal  then — 

All  dust  and  ashes  now! 


120  POEMS. 

Thus  on  we  dream,  as  trifles  bring 

Again  the  mystic  past ; 
And  hallowed  mem'ries  'round  us  cling, 

Of  joys  too  sweet  to  last. 
We  mingle  with  the  forms  that  blest 

The  homes  that  erst  we  knew ; 
Or  list  their  spirits  wooing  us, 

To  one  almost  in  view. 
Ah !  sweet,  if  we  could  ever  live 

Our  trusting  childhood  o'er ! 
Yet  sad,  if  earth  held  all  our  joy, 

And  Heaven  had  nothing  more ! 

Oct.  '63. 


DECORATION  DAY. 

All  honor  to  the  fallen  brave — 

With  lofty  paeans  greet  the  dead ! 
Let  garlands  wreathe  each  lowly  grave! 

Let  laurel  crown  each  honored  head ! 
'Mid  shot  and  shell,  and  sabre  stroke, 

They  bore  our  colors  through  the  strife, 
Till  stricken,  'mid  the  battle  smoke, 

They  died,  to  save  our  country's  life ! 

Though  angry  skies  in.  blackness  bent, 

And  shook  the  shrinking  world  in  wrath 
Though  lurid  lightnings  madly  spent 

Their  unchained  fury  in  their  path  : 
Through  wilderness  of  woven  pine, 

Through  slimy  pool,  and  tangled  briar, 
They  marched,  in  brave,  unbroken  line, 

Or  sunk  beneath  the  clogging  mire ! 


122  POEMS. 

O'er  scorching  rocks  that  cut  their  feet — 

In  hospital,  and  prison-pen — 
Some  sank  with  hunger,  thirst  and  heat, 

But  died  no  less  like  patriot-men ! 
Though  spices  may  not  wrap  our  dead, 

Nor  lofty  pyramid  arise, 
Where  justice  triumphed  while  they  bled — 

Their  names  breathe  incense  to  the  skies! 

"Dust"  may  "return  to  dust,"  but  deep 

Within  the  hearts  of  Freedom's  sons, 
Embalmed  forever,  Love  shall  keep 

The  mem'ry  of  these  faithful  ones! 
And  coming  years  shall  swell  our  lays, 

And  weave  new  laurels  for  each  head, 
While  grateful  freeman  shout  the  praise, 

And  glory  of  COLUMBIA'S  DEAD  ! 


THE  HAPPY  PAST. 

Would  I  might  recall  the  moments 

Of  the  precious,  fading  past ; 
Would  the  glorious  vision  ever 

Might  around  me  last ! 
Would  the  same  fond  eyes,  upon  me, 

Might  their  gentle  radiance  shed — 
Would  that  gentle  mother's  blessing 

Still  might  fall  upon  my  head. 

Eyes  that  ever  beamed  with  kindness, 

Lips  that  oft  have  pressed  my  brow — 
Loving  hearts — lie  cold  and  crumbling 

In  the  damp  earth  now. 
And  the  blinding,  burning  teardrops, 

From  my  weary  spirit  start, 
As  dear  Mem'ry's  lights  and  shadows 

Flit  across  my  lonely  heart. 


124  POEMS. 

Other  eyes  may  smile  upon  me — 

Hearts  as  warm  be  all  my  own ; 
But  a  love  that's  holier,  lingers 

For  the  angel  flown. 
When  this  weary  life  is  ended, 

And  death's  twilight  shadows  come, 
May  that  spirit,  pure  and  glorious, 

Be  the  one  to  bear  me  home. 


FRAGMENT. 

Should  we  murmur,  if  our  Father, 
In  His  boundless  love  hath  giv'n 

Fire  to  burn  the  dross,  and  brighten 
All  that's  good  in  us,  for  Heav'n? 


Delivered  at  New  England  Dinner,  Marshall,  Mich,  1871. 

Away,  for  awhile,  from  life's  wearisome  conflict, 
On  furlough,  we  haste  to  this  banquet  of  cheer; 

The  love  of  New  England,  our  hale-hearted  mother, 
The  bond  that  unites  us,  and  gathers  us  here. 

And  blest  is  this  board,  with  its  joy  overflowing! 

No  feast  of  the  gods  yielded  gladness  so  sweet 
As  this,  while,  with  tasks  laid  aside  for  a  season. 

'Round  the  table  fraternal,  like  children,  we  meet. 

Only  ^ra;z</-children,  some,  with   more   fancy   than 

mem'ry 
Of  grandmother's  manners,  time-honored  and 

quaint ; 
Her  face,  even,  strange,  or  at  best  but  a  glimmer, 

That  flits  through   our  dreams  but  uncertain  and 
faint. 


126  POEMS. 

Very   wise    was    New    England,    when  settling  her 
children ! — 

With  the  tact  of  a  Chieftain,  she  gathered  her  best, 
And  bade  them  go  forth  to  their  war  with  the  forests 
And  people  and  gladden  this  beautiful  West! 

And  peopled  it  was,  till  her  prairies  were  gardens, 
And  cities  sprang  up  in  the  arms  of  the  wild ; 

And  New  England,  astonished,   with  the   silence  of 
wisdom, 

Took  a  seat  in  the  lap  of  her  overgrown  child ! 

A  strange,  loving  child,  with  its  mother's  hale  virtues, 

Though  the  noise  in  its  speech  disturbs  all  of  her 
nerves, 

A  revenue  yields  her  of  valleys  unmeasured, 

And  the  government  too  with  a  few  wise  reserves. 

Dear  glorious  land!  from  the  gray  rock  of  Plymouth, 

Afar  to  the  gold-gleaming  slope  of  the  West, 
Thy  children  are  brothers,  thou  all  art  New  England, 

For  the  strong  heart   of  Liberty   thorbs   in    each 
breast. 


POEMS.  127 

The  morn  of  thy  youth  is  obscured  in  thy  brightness, 
But  oh  !  for  the  future  we  fain  would  forecast, 

While  Pride  and  Ambition  embrace  even  Error, 
Nor  dream  of  a  transport  too  perfect  to  last ! 

Years    crowd    upon    years,    like   the   foam   crested 
breakers, 

That  beat  on  the  beautiful,  sand-drifted  shore ; 
They  wear  down  the  pictures  that  seem  to  us  sacred, 

And  soon  they  must  cheer  even  mem'ry  no  more  ! 

Dim — dimmer  than  dreams,  come  the  deeds  of  Miles 
Standish, 

'Mid  the  hurry  and  worry  and  glare  of  to  day ; 
And  a  myth  is  the  cot  where  Priscilla  sat  spinning, 

Till  Raghorn,  the  beautiful,  bore  her  away! 

Yet  far  'mid  those  hills,  there's  a  cottage  as  lowly, 

Where    "mother's"    sweet   voice    to    the    spinning 

wheel  sung; 

And  here,  in  our  midst,  there  are  sons  of  John  Alden, 
With  hearts  as  heroic  as  his  whence  they  sprung ! 


128  POEMS. 

How  oft  have  we  gathered  around  the  old  fireside, 
In  times  that  grow  sacred,  with  gathering  years ! 

The  visions  of  lang  syne  arise,  rainbow-tinted, 
To  us,  as  we  view  them  through  fast  rising  tears ! 

And  fond  recollection  shall  pause  at  this  meeting, 
While  counting  her  gems,  as  the  daylight  departs : 

We'll  put  it  away,  with  the  mem'ry  of  mother, 
And  childhood's  glad  orisons,  deep  in  our  hearts. 

Oh !  blest  be  the  bond  of  bright  years  that  unites  us, 
For  life  has  no  meed  like  the  love  of  the  true ; 

No  gift  of  the  throng  e'er  so  sweetly  requites  us, 
Or  nerves  us  so  bravely  to  dare  and  to  do. 

And  meet  though  the  honors  we  yield  to  the  heroes, 
Who  labor  among  us,  a  Heaven  blest  band ; 

Yet  riper  and  richer  shall  circle  the  mem'ry 

Of  those  who  first  opened  the  doors  of -our  land ! 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  RANKS. 


Written  and  delivered  at  the  request  of  the  "Ladies'  Tempe 
rance  League,"    August  1874. 


Fair  was  the  world,  to  outwajd  eyes, 
And  joy  awoke  the  laggard  Spring; 

The  sun  looked  down  from  azure  skies, 
And  kissed  the  robin's  russet  wing. 

The  signal  sounds,  so  often  giv'n, 
Were  lost  upon  the  reckless  air : 

We  only  caught  the.  smiles  of  Heav'n, 
Though  Sin  trode  raging  in  his  lair. 

And  spirits,  from  the  lower  deep, 
By  midnight  wandered  to  and  fro ; 

Their  orgies  rose  above  our  sleep, 
Like  echoes  from  the  world  of  woe. 


POEMS. 

Their  nets  they  spread,  in  street  and  lane ; 

In  every  path,  their  snares  they  wove : 
With  madness  hushed  their  victim's  pain, 

As,  helpless,  in  their  toils  he  strove. 

For  avarice,  with  blinding  spell, 

Won  to  their  aid  man's  cunning  hand ; 

And  Peace  rang  out  her  parting  knell, 
As  Honor  fled  the  blighted  land. 

The  grey-haired  father  calmly  went 
His  daily  path,  with  trusting  tread ; 

With  years  of  noble  deeds,  low  bent, 
That  crowned  with  joy  his  hoary  head. 

Love  searched  for  him  till  evening  fall — 
She  wearied  not  when  midnight  came ; 

The  withered  frame,  she  found,  but  all 
The  better  part  was  lost  in  shame. 

The  man  of  strength  went  forth  in  hope, 
To  toil,  of  danger  unaware — 

At  eve,  alas!  we  saw  him  grope, 
Blind,  helpless  in  the  fatal  snare. 


POEMS.  131 

The  loving  mother  rose,  at  morn, 

With  blessings  for  each  dear  one's  head; 

Her  fingers  fain  would  pluck  each  thorn 
From  out  the  path  their  feet  must  tread. 

That  noble  son,  with  soul  that  viewed 
The  field  of  manhood  just  before — 

How  bright  the  scene,  and  golden-hued ! — 
How  full  the  grain,  and  rich  in  store ! 

Alas !  for  hopes  on  earth  reposed ! 

Alas !  for  love  that  clings  to  clay ! 
The  fatal  toils  around  him  closed, 

And  grief  eclipsed  the  glowing  day ! 

That  little  one  with  floating  hair, 

And  dimpled  beauty,  pure  and  sweet — 

Ah !  surely  loving  Heav'n,  with  care, 
Will  ever  guard  her  guileless  feet. 

Bright,  mocking  hope!  why  falsely  sing? 

Who  doth  the  fatal  winecup  spare? 
The  lovliest  feel  its  hidden  sting — 

None  are  too  pure,  and  none  too  fair. 


132  POEMS. 

The  careworn  face,  the  drooping  eye, 
Too  soon  bespeak  the  blighted  life : 

Her  singing  hushes  to  a  sigh — 
Alas ! — she  is  a  drunkard's  wife ! 

And  mother  hearts  that  should  have  kept 
The  ward  of  paths  where  dangers  teem, 

At  gate  or  helm  or  doorway  slept, 
Or,  waking,  walked  as  in  a  dream. 

But  list !  there  comes  a  sound  of  war — 
The  air  is  full  of  strange  alarms ; 

We  catch  the  bugle  note  afar, 

» 

And  waking,  wildly  fly  to  arms ! 

Ah!  now  the  startled  foe  appears, 
We  rally  for  the  thick'ning  strife; 

By  Love  inspired,  adieu !  to  fears — 
We  come  with  consecrated  life. 

No  passing  whim,  of  moment's  length, 
Beguiled  us  to  this  mortal  fight ; 

Our  grief  is  deep,  and  small  our  strength, 
But  6Wis  ours,  and  He  is  MIGHT! 


POEMS.  133 

With  humble  faith  we  seek  his  will — 

We  meet  Him,  heart  to  heart,  in  prayer; 

And,  though  He  slay  us,  trust  Him  still. 
And  cast  on  Him  our  crushing  care. 

Our  plodding  toil  of  patient  days 
Shall  end  in  gladness,  by  and  by; 

Our  waiting  souls  shall  see  the  blaze 
Of  God's  unfailing  victory. 

We  work  with  Him,  we  wait  His  hour, 

Nor  dream  of  weariness  or  rest ; 
The  souls  we  love  are  in  our  povv'r — 

'Tis  that,  inspires  each  shrinking  breast. 

Go  learn  the  pangs  our  darlings  feel, 

That  drunkards'  wives  and  mothers  know — 

Ye  then  may  guess  that  nerves  of  steel 
May  live  beneath  a  gentle  brow. 

The  passing  child  may  thrill  with  fear 
The  timid  breast  of  wildwood  dove, 

Till,  only  from  afar,  we  hear 

Her  tender  coo,  and  song  of  love. 


134  POEMS. 

But  let  the  serpent's  slimy  form 

Disturb  her  brood — invade  her  nest — 

Her  mother-love  subdues  alarm, 

And  courage  nerves  her  downy  breast. 

A  frenzied  rage,  her  will  inspires, 
Her  cries,  her  agony  bespeak, 

Her  nestling's  peril  swiftly  fires 

Her  beating  wings,  and  tearing  beak. 

And  mother  birds,  from  far  and  near, 
Of  every  song,  and  every  plume, 

Her  frantic  shrieks  of  vengeance,  hear, 
And  fly  to  seal  the  monster's  doom. 

With  head  upraised  in  venomed  pride, 
And  folds  that  writhe  in  subtle  strength, 

With  lulling  charm,  they  see  him  glide, 
And  slow  uncoil  his  fearful  length. 

Transfixed  and  silently  await 

The  helpless  birdlings,  in  the  nest. 

Ah !  what  shall  stay  impending  fate, 
Or  guard  the  shrieking  mother's  breast ! 


POEMS.  135 

And  now  the  combat  wages  hot — 

'Tis  poison  fang  'gainst  beak  and  wing, 

The  fallen  few  are  heeded  not 

By  those  who  parry,  coil  and  sting. 

And  still  they  close,  till,  one  by  one, 
The  valiant  parent  birds  are  slain ; 

And  oft,  before  the  fight  is  done, 
But  few  of  that  first  flock  remain. 

But  other  birds,  from  quiet  haunts, 
Into  the  ranks  have  softly  flown, 

With  courage  which  no  horror  daunts, 
And  made  the  cause  of  right,  their  own. 

No  time  have  they  to  chirp  their  grief 
O'er  fallen  ones,  that  'neath  them  lie; 

Or  tremble  with  the  dire  belief 

That,  if  they  fight,  they  too  must  die. 

Their  quenchless  will,  the  serpent  feels, 
And  sinks  beneath  the  ceaseless  strife; 

And,  wounded,  fainting,  dying — seals 
The  rightful  triumph  with  his  life. 


136  POEMS. 

Then,  upward  from  the  victor  flock, 
A  peal  of  gladness  rends  the  sky ; 

And  valley  sweetly  answers  rock, 
In  tuneful  song  of  VICTORY! 


Within  the  quiet  haunts  of  home, 

Frail  woman  sought  and  loved  repose : 

She  had  no  will  or  wish  to  roam, 
Or  try  her  unskilled  hand  with  foes. 

When  sorrows  came  she  could  not  cure, 
In  time  they  sighed  themselves  to  rest : 

She  did  not  vanquish,  but  endure, 

And  hoarded  strength  within  her  breast. 

But  some  there  were  who  sorrow  knew, 

Too  dark  for  speech,  too  deep  for  tears- 
It  touched  them  and  their  children  too, 
And  blighted  all  their  after  years. 


POEMS.  137 

They  saw  their  loved,  the  weak,  the  strong, 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

Join,  daily,  in  the  frenzied  throng, 
That  rushes  to  a  drunkard's  grave. 

To  stay  the  doom  so  justly  feared, 
With  man  we  plead  for  better  laws ; 

He  heard  and  labored,  till  appeared 
A  faultless  statute  for  our  cause. 

We  onward  floated  then  awhile, 

With  thankful  souls,  and  hope  elate : 

We,  long  before,  had  learned  to  toil — 
We  now  alas!  must  learn  to  wait! 

The  men  who  framed  that  statute  fair. 

In  silence,  slept  a  score  of  years, 
Unmoved  by  the  inebriate's  prayer, 

And  stricken  woman's  grief  and  tears. 

For  Avarice,  with  orient  charm, 

Touched  loving   hearts   and   turned   them 

stone — 

Unaided  by  each  nerveless  arm, 
We  grappled  with  the  foe  alone. 


138  POEMS. 

If  from  the  strong  no  help  may  come, 
If  madness  lure  them  from  our  side, 

Till  we  are  forced  to  fight  for  /tome, 
It  ill  becomes  them  now  to  chide! 

From  cowardice  and  greed  awake ! 

Put  holy  laws  into  effect — 
No  more  the  sacred  promise  break, 

"To  love,  to  cherish  and  protect!" 

Then  see  how  swiftly  home  we'll  turn, 
As  wearied  birdling  seeks  her  nest ; . 

Our  Vestal  fires  shall  brighter  burn, 

And  Love  re'wakened,  flood  each  breast. 

But,  as  we  meet  in  clashing  fray, 

Our  loved  to  save,  our  homes  to  free. 

No  sneers  or  jesting  shall  dismay, 
For  Duty  is  u propriety." 

'Tis  love  that  reigns  in  woman's  breast — 
Love  lifts  and  nerves  her  puny  hand : 

'Twas  danger  to  her  dear  home  nest, 
That  first  her  rlick'ring  courage  fanned. 


POEMS.  139 

The  weakness  of  her  finer  frame, 
She  supplements  by  faith  and  will, 

That  soon  shall  put  to  flight  and  shame, 
The  deadly  "serpent  of  the  still." 

His  coil  he  throws  across  our  path — 
In  sullen  strength  he  lifts  his  head — 

With  forked  tongue  he  hisses  wrath, 
And  gloats  in  triumph  o'er  the  dead. 

And  some  who  know  his  subtle  charm, 
His  grasp  of  steel,  his  gleaming  eye — 

Before  his  threat'ning  take  alarm, 
And,  lost  to  love  and  honor,  fly. 

And  some,  in  utter  weariness, 

Have  fainted,  though  they  did  not  yield : 
Their  faith,  their  prayers  are  ours  no  less, 

Though  forced  awhile  to  quit  the  field. 

The  serpent  grew,  by  vict'ry  bold — 

Vile  calumny  on  some  he  flung : 
For  some,  the  boughs  that  bore  tl.jm  gold, 

In  malice  he  adroitly  stung. 


140  POEMS. 

Then  up  to  Heav'n,  with  hearts  that  ache, 
We  breathe  our  loss,  for  God  hath  said — 

"The  righteous  I  will  not  forsake — 

Their  children  shall  not  want  for  bread." 

As  angry  clouds,  at  morn  unfurled, 
With  glory  gild  the  waning  day, 

So  cometh  gladness  that  the  world 
Can  neither  give  nor  take  away. 

In  memory,  we  hear  the  tones 

Of  some,  once  foremost  in  the  fray ; 

Their  hearts  are  writhing  for  their  sons — 
What  can  their  longing  footsteps  stay? 

Alas !  that  home  should  ever  be 

What  many  homes  to  women  are ! — 

Where  Patience  sighs  for  liberty, 
Behind  a  golden  bolt  and  bar! 

To  live,  and  live  uncomforted, 

With  fettered  hands,  with  pleasure  flown, 
Where  passing  years  once  lightly  sped, 

They  learn,  and  weep  and  pray  alone. 


POEMS.  141 

With  silent  lips  they  bear  their  grief; 

With  sacred  trust  their  vows  they  keep ; 
So,  tortured,  bound,  with  no  relief, 

What  can  they  do  but  pray  and  weep? 

But  furrows  steal  upon  their  cheeks, 
And  circles  shade  their  drooping  eyes; 

Thus  Grief  her  saddest  language  speaks, 
While  hushing  e'en  her  softest  sighs ! 

God  wearies  not,  and  He  can  see, 
And  gather  all  our  tears  that  rise : 

By  Love  illumined,  they  shall  be 
A  pearly  pathway  to  the  skies ! 

And,  o'er  its  radiant  arches,  swift 

Our  prayers  shall  glide,  with  winged  feet ; 

God  shall  the  cloudy  curtain  lift — 
His  love,  our  sad  petitions  greet ! 

But  though,  by  flight,  or  weariness, 

Or  silken  fetters,  deftly  bound, 
We've  sometimes  seen  our  ranks  grow  less, 

Some  sure  relief  was  always  found. 


142  POEMS. 

In  quiet  homes,  through  all  the  land, 
Is  heard  each  signal  of  distress, 

And  help  appears — another  band — 
And  to  the  battle  front  they  press. 

Again  and  yet  again  they  rise — 

This  combat  shows  a  wondrous  length ; 

For  God  commands  us,  from  the  skies, 
And  he  inspires  our  garnered  strength. 

With  faith  unshaken,  on  we  move, 
Unshrinking  till  the  fight  is  past ; 

Our  will,  unwav'ring  as  our  love ! 
Shall  welcome  victory  at  last. 

And  when,  in  death,  the  monster,  fell, 
Lies  stretched  upon  the  plain  below, 

A  myriad  mother  hearts  shall  swell, 
With  songs  of  gladness  o'er  the  foe ! 

Praise  God!  shall  through  the  valley  ring; 

Praise  God!  shall  echo  through  the  sky; 
And  orisons  of  gladness  wing, 

To  God,  who  giveth  victory ! 


POEMS.  143 

To-day,  that  anthem  might  begin, 
If  men,  who  bear  the  saviour's  name, 

Would  rise  against  this  deadly  sin, 
Nor  longer  put  their  vows  to  shame. 

Ring  not  these  Heav'nly  accents  still? — 
"Not  every  one  that  saith  Lord,  Lord, 

But  he  that  DOTH  my  Fathers  will, 

Shall  hear,  at  last,  the  welcome  word." 

What  is  his  will?  What  do  we  mean, 
When  praying  "let  thy  will  be  done?" 

Is  it  that  earth  should  be  a  scene 
Of  blackest  crime,  from  sun  to  sun? 

Is  it  that  day  and  night  astound 

The  pow'rs  below,  with  groans  and  tears? 
Is  it  that  you,  their  fearful  sound, 

Let  fall  unheeded  on  your  ears? 

Oh  Life !  Oh  Love !  lift  up  your  cries, 

Till  thoughtless,  dreaming  men  awake ; 
Or  wrath  will  burst  the  patient  skies, 

And    heads   must   bow,    and   hearts    must 
break! 


144  POEMS. 

Pause  from  the  chase  for  worthless  thing* 
For  pleasure,  dying  with  the  day ; 

And  gold  that  only  taketh  wings, 
And,  ere  we  know  it,  flits  away. 

Is  gold  real  riches?  Should  it  be 
That  you  had  only  daily  bread, 

Would  you  not  be  as  rich  as  he 

Who  had  "not  where  to  lay  his  head?" 

List  to  the  words  by  Heaven  sealed — 
Uttered  by  Him  who  knew  no  sin : 

"Behold  the  lilies  of  the  field, 

They  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin, 

Yet  Solomon,  in  all  his  state, 

Was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these  : — 

Ye  faithless !  dearer  far  your  fate, 
To  him,  than  lilies  in  the  breeze !" 

Seek  first  the  righteousness  of  God, 
And  He  shall  add  sufficient  store ; 

Follow  the  path  by  Jesus  trod, 
And  never  thirst  or  hunger  more! 


POEMS.  145 

How  dare  ye  pray  "Thy  will  be  done," 
While,  by  your  suff 'ranee,  vice  is  free, 

And  souls  to  ruin  hurry  on? — 

Will  Heaven  brook  such  mockery? 

Your  wordy  prayers,  like  poisoned  spears, 
Shall  pierce  you  in  the  judgment  day; 

Insulted  Truth  will  scorn  your  tears — 
Too  late  to  work — too  late  to  pray! 

Upon  your  brows  the  mark  of  Cain 

Is  set  by  an  offended  God ! 
Depart!  no  more  his  board  profane, 

Till  ye  are  cleansed  in  Jesus'  blood ! 

What  though  your  temples,  towering 
Their  gilded  spires,  reach  up  to  Heav'n ! 

God  loveth  not  the  gift  you  bring ; — 
The  "price  of  blood"  is  for  it  giv'n ! 

Go,  take  the  price  of  sob  and  sigh — 

Of  souls,  forever  lost  in  sin — 
Take  it,  ye  hypocrites !  and  buy 

"A  field  to  bury  strangers  in!" 


146  POEMS. 

-   A  few  there  are,  a  faithful  few, 

Who  follow  in  their  Master's  tread; 
True  to  themselves,  to  Heaven  true — 
God's  love  defend  each  honored  head! 

The  clutch  of  Crime  upon  the  land, 
With  holy  wrath,  their  spirits  fired : 

No  threat  could  daunt,  no  foe  withstand, 
For  Duty  led,  and  Faith  inspired ! 

By  patient  labor,  have  they  shown 
Their  fealty  to  their  risen  Lord ; 

Their  pow'r  is  felt,  their  work  is  known, 

Where  Right  once  languished  and  implored. 

Toil  on,  ye  brave !  God  reigneth  still ! 

He  sees  you  weep,  He  hears  you  sigh : 
The  clouds  that  darken  vale  and  hill, 

Shall  break,  in  gladness,  by  and  by ! 

As,  in  the  dim,  azoic  past, 

Broad  continents  in  silence  lay — 

Their  wealth  and  beauty  cloud  o'ercast, 
Awaiting  the  approaching  day: 


POEMS.  147 

So  sleeps,  to-day,  the  moral  world, 

In  clouds  of  ignorance  and  sin ; 
Her  wealth  unused,  her  beauty  furled, 

Till  God's  bright  day  is  ushered  in ! 

Roll  on,  ye  hours !  Roll  on,  ye  years ! 

Till  breaks  the  morn  our  hopes  forecast : 
Of  small  account,  our  toils  and  tears, 

Beside  the  joy  that  comes  at  last! 

Father!  to  Thee  we  lift  our  eyes; 

Thou  art  our  hope,  our  strength,  our  all : 
Thy  love  shall  listen  to  our  cries — 

It  noteth  e'en  the  sparrow's  fall. 

The  way  is  dark  and  rough  and  long; 

Our  hearts  are  faint,  our  feet  are  sore ; 
We  cheer  its  devious  length  with  song, 

For  Christ  has  walked  the  path  before. 

No  anguish  for  another's  sin — 

No  agony  our  spirits  know, 
From  foes  without,  or  foes  within, 

But  He  hath  felt  it  long  ago. 


148  POEMS. 

With  humble  rev'rence,  we  pursue 
The  bright  example  he  hath  giv'n ; 

Rejoiced  to  know  the  grief  He  knew, 

And  share,  with  Him,  the  bliss  of  Heav'n. 

Oh !  may  we  never  once  forget 
The  blood  for  us  so  freely  spilt; 

The  midnight  groans,  and  crimson  sweat 
That  plead  with  God  for  sinners'  guilt ! 

Dear  Saviour!  what  hast  thou  not  borne, 
Of  toil  and  pain  and  infamy? 

Then  welcome !  labor,  sorrow,  scorn — 
'Tis  all  for  Thee— dear  Christ— for  thee ! 

Increase  our  courage,  rouse  our  faith, 
To  visions  of  the  promised  land ; 

Nor  ever  let  us  lose,  till  death, 
Our  hold  upon  thy  guiding  hand  1 

Father,  forgive  the  thoughtlessness 
Of  those  who  fain  would  honor  Thee, 

Whom  smaller  sins  of  men  oppress, 
While  this  great  crime  they  do  not  see. 


POEMS. 


149 


Forgive,  and  rouse  them,  by  thy  love, 
To  humbly  ask  and  work  they  will ; 

By  action,  deep  repentance  prove; 
By  sacrifice,  thy  law  fulfil. 

Help  them  to  love  and  succour  those 
Who  love  them  not  again :  to  find 

Mercy,  not  only  for  their  foes, 

But  for  the  helpless,  halt  and  blind. 

Father,  stretch  forth  thy  mighty  arm, 
For  thou,  alone,  hast  pow'r  to  save 

The  victims  of  the  winecup's  charm, 

And  ward  them  from  a  drunkard's  grave. 

With  giddy  steps,  from  year  to  year, 
The  wild  procession  hurries  on — 

Toogay  to  pause,  tctfproud  to  fear, 
Till  o'er  the  horrid  steep  they're  gone. 

The  old  and  trembling,  and  the  strong, 
The  bridegroom,  and  his  gentle  bride, 

And  tender  childhood,  swell  the  song 
And  surging  of  this  living  tide. 


150  POEMS. 

Sometimes  the  syren's  spell  is  lost 
A  moment,  and  the  truth  appears ; 

Then,  oh !  how  full  they  pay  the  cost 
Of  mocking  mirth,  in  heart  wrung  tears ! 

The  hungry  cries  of  little  ones — 
The  tear  of  shame,  in  loving  eyes, — 

The  downward  steps  of  watchful  sons — 
The  scorn  of  all  whose  love  they  prize ; — 

Health,  pleasure,  hope  and  honor  fled — 
A  bankrupt  name,  a  ruined  home, 

Where,  (souls  and  bodies  well  nigh  dead,) 
Like  dread,  disfigured  ghosts  they  come  :— 

These  are  the  winning  wine-cup's  price, 
With  souls  aghast,  they  waking  see : 

Oh!  how  they  loathe  their  clinging  vice! — 
How  madly  struggle  to  be  free ! 

Too  late,  alas!  their  toil  is  vain, 

For  wine  hath  robbed  them  of  their  will ; 

No  pow'rs  remain  to  burst  the  chain ; 
The  links  but  tighten  'round  them  still. 


POEMS.  151 

Then  trembling,  sinking  in  despair, 

They  walk  the  earth  no  more  like  men : 

In  madness  seek  to  banish  care, 
And  sink  beneath  the  brutes  again. 

Or,  with  a  sense  of  helplessness, 

That  feels  not  e'en  God's  pow'r  to  save, 

What  wonder,  some,  from  deep  distress, 
Seek  peaceful  refuge,  in  the  grave! 

Kind  Heaven!  spare  them  from  that  hour; 

With  holy  balm,  their  spirits  heal : 
No  miracle  exceeds  thy  pow'r — 

The  lowest  may  thy  mercy  feel. 

Come !  winged  messengers  of  light ! 

And  whisper  of  the  crucified; 
With  heavenly  morning  banish  night — 

It  was  for  sinners  Jesus  died  ! 


152  POEMS. 

Soft  fall  the  shades,  at  eventide ; 

The  starlight  glistens  on  the  dew; 
The  robin  trills,  her  nest  beside, 

Her  song  of  love,  forever  new. 

And  songs  of  love,  from  happy  hearts. 

Rise,  where  the  ruddy  lamplight  glows ; 
For  peace  descends,  as  day  departs, 

And  home  her  sweetest  gladness  knows. 

Papa,  with  forehead  crossed  by  care, 
Sits  down,  for  respite,  with  a  smile : 

And,  from  his  ample  easy  chair, 

Perchance  some  fragment  reads,  the  while. 

Adieu!  anxiety  and  toil! 

And  welcome !  moments  love-caressed ! 
With  romp  and  game  the  hours  beguile, 

For  rest  is  bliss,  and  these  are  rest ! 

The  little  ones,  with  tameless  mirth, 
Their  small  feet  patter  to  and  fro ; 

Believing  life's  chief  end,  on  earth, 

Is  "Blind  man's  buff"  or  "Children  go." 


POEMS. 

While  older  ones  with  head  inclined, 
With  earnest  eye,  and  lip  sedate, 

By  patient  study,  smile  to  find 

A  mine  of  wealth  in  book  and  slate. 

The  happy  mother  sings  to  sleep 

The  sweet  one  pillowed  on  her  breast, 

With  soft  caress  that  fain  would  keep 
Her  darling  from  his  cradlenest. 

And  then  the  Holy  Book  is  brought, 
And  words  of  love  and  guidance  read; 

Forgiveness  for  the  past  is  sought, 
And  blessing  for  each  waiting  head. 

And  then  the  soft  "good  nights"  are  heard, 
And  childhood's  slumbers  quickly  come : 

But  waiting  still,  with  loving  word, 
The  busy  mother  haunts  the  room. 

She  bends  above  their  snowy  bed, 
And  heav'nly  sweetness  fills  her  eyes ; 

She  softly  strokes  each  silken  head, 
And  smiles  to  hear  their  drowsy  sighs. 


'53 


154  POEMS. 

Their  very  breathing,  music  seems, 
And  fairer  theirs  than  cherub's  cheek : 

Her  loving  whispers  gild  their  dreams ; 
Her  glist'ning  eyes  her  bliss  bespeak. 

Fond  mother,  when,  safe  here  at  home, 
You  hover  o'er  their  slumbers  sweet, 

Do  never  dark  forebodings  come, 
Of  pitfalls  for  their  tender  feet? 

Dost  never  think,  when  thrilled  with  fear, 
By  drunken  shoutings,  coarse  and  wild — 

The  poor  outcast,  whose  voice  you  hear, 
Was  once  a  mother's  sinless  child? 

At  night,  she  bent  above  his  bed, 
With  fond  caresses  for  his  cheek — 

Breathed  blessings  on  his  sunny  head, 
And  wept  the  love  she  could  not  speak. 

^Stay,  winged  Time,  thy  journey  fleet — 

While  peace  and  joy  like  this  we  know! 
Thy  pinions  fold! — too  rich,  too  sweet 
These  precious  hours,  to  let  them  go ! 


POEMS.  155 

Yes,  sweet  to  find  our  loved  at  home, 
When  laggard  sunset  flies  the  hill ; 

When  midnight's  dark  temptations  come, 
To  know  our  love  may  guard  them  still. 

Kind  Heaven,  can  the  future  prove 
A  morn  like  theirs  must  set  in  gloom? 

Is  there  no  pow'r  in  all  our  love, 

To  shield  them  from  a  drunkard's  doom? 

To  godly  fear  their  hearts  we  train, 
With  filial  love  their  aims  inspire ; 

Each  baser  thought  with  care  restrain, 
And  early  guard  each  pure  desire. 

The  world  we  search  for  highest  arts — 
Bring  gems  and  sculptured  offerings, 

And  everything  that  joy  imparts, 

That  knowledge  gives,  or  pleasure  brings. 

We  fill  our  homes  with  young  and  gay ; 

Of  harmless  joys  they  drink  their  fill; 
Andj^/  their  guarded  feet  will  stray — 

The  fatal  wine-cup  lures  them  still! 


156  POEMS. 

What  wonder,  when,  on  every  street 
And  step,  Hell  keeps  a  gilded  gate; 

And,  for  their  unsuspecting  feet, 
The  patient  devils  mask  and  wait? 

Oh !  that  such  sins  of  men  might  stain 
Th'  offenders  brow  to  Ethiop  hue : 

And  souls,  where  godlike  virtues  reign, 
Might  let  their  heav'nly  radiance  through ! 

Then  might  the  guileless  flee  aghast, 
In  quick  disgust,  the  tempter's  smile ; 

And  purer  friends,  and  joys  that  last, 
In  heav'nly  guise,  their  steps  beguile. 

These  dens  are  in  the  paths  to  toil, 

To  churches,  business,  games  and  schools ; 

And  music  drowns  their  fiendish  broil, 
While  Reason  sleeps,  and  Passion  rules. 

Their  owners  look  like  better  men ; 

Their  brows  are  mild,  their  voices  kind; 
And  so  friends  drink  and  call  again, 

To  art  and  danger  ever  blind. 


POEMS.  157 

But  Shame  the  scepter  will  assume — 
Shame  finds  new  names  for  infamy : 

The  beer  saloon's  a  "Sample  Room," 
The  whiskey  shop,  a  "Grocery." 

Shame    paints    their    signs,    and   builds    their 
screens, 

And  dims  their  windows  half  way  up : 
By  day  and  night  enacts  her  scenes, 

And  bends  abandoned  o'er  the  cup. 

By  Shame,  proud  sums  of  gold,  ill-won, 
Upon  the  church's  shrine  is  laid; 

As  though  such  off'rings  could  atone 
For  guileless  souls  enticed — betrayed ! 

Still  unreleased  by  Shylock-Shame, 

Their  plans  they  change,  for  future  years: 

Their  lives,  they  say,  shall  baffle  blame, 
And  alms  atone  for  orphans'  tears. 

But  stronger  grows  their  thirst  for  gold ; 

And  fainter  rise  their  nobler  aims; 
Till  hope  is  lost  in  pangs  untold, 

And  Death  the  vile  decoyer  claims. 


158  POEMS. 

Oh!  boundless  Love  that  stooped  to  touch 

The  leper,  in  his  foul  distress, 
Unveil  thy  winning  face  to  such, 

And  woo  their  cursing  lips  to  bless ! 

We  see  them  leading  souls  to  death, 
Unconscious  that  their  footsteps  too 

Are  rushing  down  the  same  dark  path, 
And  they  must  share  their  victims'  wo. 

We  call  to  them,  in  gentlest  tones; 

They  heed  us  only  while  we  speak : 
Again  we  plead,  while  urged  by  moans, 

From  hearts  that  writhe  and  bleed  and  break. 

We  point  them  up  to  purer  joys — 
To  paths  that  lead  to  Paradise : 

They  answer  us  in  jesting  voice, 
Or  stupid  leer  of  bloodshot  eyes. 

Oh  God!  we  murmur,  can  it  be 
That  souls  like  these  can  never  die? 

If  unforgiv'n,  can  never  flee 
The  fire  of  thy  pursuing  eye? 


POEMS.  159 

Must  bear  the  curse  of  souls  undone, 

The  souls  of  those  their  crimes  destroyed — 

Shut  out  from  bliss  they  might  have  won — 
Decoyers  by  themselves  decoyed? 

And  this  forever !  Bend  we  low : 

This  thought  a  flood  wave  o'er  us  rolls! 

For  them,  thou  God  alone  canst  know 
The  anguish  of  our  pleading  souls ! 

Would  they  might  see,  above  them,  hung 
The  bolts  of  thy  suspended  wrath ! 

The  mutt'ring  clouds  around  them  flung, 
Must  burst  in  vengeance  on  their  path! 

We  feel  the  uselessness  of  all 

Our  words  and  tears,  and,  led  by  Thee, 
And  trusting  Thee,  on  law  we  call, 

And  work  and  wait  for  victory. 

"  Save  them,  oh !  save  them ! "  still  we  cry, 
While  forcing  them  the  young  to  spare ; 

Our  souls'  desire  must  pierce  the  sky— 
Thou  art  a  God  that  hearest  prayer! 


l6o  POEMS. 

Though  conscience,  palsied  and  confined, 
Scarce  murmurs  in  her  restless  sleep; 

Though  souls  are  numb  and  deaf  and  blind, 
And  eyes  long  since  unused  to  weep : 

Where'er  the  faintest  germ  of  life, 
That  reaches  God-ward,  still  is  left, 

In  souls  with  evil  passions  rife, 
Of  hope  and  will,  almost  bereft — 

Within  their  chambers,  dark  and  close, 
Breathe  living  warmth,  from  heav'nly  fire ; 

Let  nought  the  swelling  germ  oppose, 
Or  check  the  growth  of  pure  desire. 

So  shall  thine  image  grow  at  last, 

From  out  each  wearied,  sinscarred  soul ; 

Till,  at  thy  feet,  his  all  is  cast, 

And  Mercy  whispers  "Be  thou  whole!" 

But  is  there  one  so  hard,  so  base, 
He  ne'er  will  heed  thy  Spirits'  call, 

For  whom  remains  no  day  of  grace — 

On  him,  let  Heav'n's  swift  vengeance  fall ! 


POEMS.  l6l 

Why  should  he  stay  but  to  destroy? 

Why  fetters  forge  for  pure  and  free? 
Long  life  can  neither  bring  him  joy, 

Nor  shorten  his  eternity! 

Death's  messengers,  at  every  hand, 

With  ready  feet,  await  thy  nod; 
Then  why  should  such  thy  cause  withstand, 

Defying  man,  insulting  God ! 

In  //'/}',  loving  Heav'n  remove 

These  hindrances  from  out  Thy  way ; 

And  spare  the  children  of  our  love, 
From  human  demons,  such  as  they! 

Dear  sisters,  God  will  hear  our  prayers, 
Will  save  our  land  from  wine,  accurs'd, 

Though  we  may  leave  these  heavy  cares, 
And  climb  the  shining  stairway  first. 

The  patient  Lord  of  earth  and  sky, 
Who  bore  our  griefs,  and  for  us  died, 

Saw,  only  with  prophetic  eye, 

The  good  for  which  he  worked  and  sighed. 


162  POEMS. 

So  let  our  patience  grow  like  His; 

So  let  us  labor,  sorrow,  die; 
So  may  we  trust  God's  promises, 

And  see  the  end  through  Faith's  clear  eye ! 

Then,  when  awakes  the  solemn  day, 
That  seals  our  actions,  bad  or  good, 

We'll  hear  the  voice  of  Jesus  say — 

Sweet   words — "She   hath   done   what   she 
could!" 


AWAY  TO  THE  SILVER-LIT  SEA. 

Away!  while  the  white  moon  is  beaming — 

Away!  to  the  silver-lit  sea! 
While  the  dew  laden  flowers  are  dreaming. 

Come,  Winnie,  come  darling  with  me. 
To  thy  song  shall  the  nightingale  listen, 

And  the  wild  breezes  slumber  for  thee ; 
While  thy  voice  shall  the  mystic  harps  waken, 

'Neath  the  swell  of  the  silver-lit  sea ! 

CHORUS — 

Beautiful,  beautiful  Winnie — 

Beautiful  ever  to  me — 
But  never  so  beautiful,  darling, 

As  to-night,  on  the  silver-lit  sea! 

Oh !  sweet  are  the  voices  that  love  us, 
When  heard  at  the  dear  ingleside; 

But  sweeter,  with  moonlight  above  us, 
As  we  float  on  the  swell  of  the  tide. 


SONGS.  1 65 

How  tenderly,  softly  they  echo, 

The  beat  of  the  waves  on  the  shore — 

Like  memories  cherished  and  golden, 
Of  sweet,  faded  summers  of  yore ! 

CHORUS. 

Oh !  brightly  thy  drooping  eyes  glisten 

The  love  that  thy  lips  will  not  speak; 
I  feel  thou  art  mine  while  I  listen, 

And  see  the  rose  bloom  on  thy  cheek. 
Thus  ever,  my  darling,  forever, 

I'd  float  on  life's  billow  with  thee — 
Thy  dear  voice  forever  awaking 

Its  sweet  mystic  music  for  me ! 
CHORUS, 


GREETING   SONG. 

For  the  Quinquennial  reunion  of  the  Atheniades1  Society  of 
Albion  College,  April  251/1,  i8jo. 

With  chorus  of  greeting  we  welcome  you  all, 
To  our  circle  of  hearts,  warm  and  true ; 

Let  no  thought  divide  us,  who  come  at  this  call, 
To  the  home  where  our  old  friendship  grew. 


CHORUS — 

And  brothers  and  sisters,  let  this  be  our  song, 
Forever — come  weal  or  come  woe — 
There  are  no  friends  like  the  good  old  friends 
That  we  loved  in  the  long  ago ! 


We've  stood  by  each  other,  for  many  a  year, 
Whether  sunshine  or  storm  filled  the  sky ; 

Each  had,  for  the  others,  some  word  of  good  cheer. 
Though  Hope  spread  her  pinions  to  fly. 

Then  brothers  and  sisters,  etc. 


SONGS.  167 

Long  years,  a  frail  craft,  were  we  tossed  by  the  sea, 
But  the  old  motto  *   blazed  like  the  sun ; 

And  we  clung  to  the  ship,  for  we  knew  it  must  be, 
That  our  voyage  was  only  begun. 

Then  brothers  and  sisters,  etc. 

Now  flaunt  thy  bright  pennon,  and  set  ev'ry  sail, 
For  proudly,  at  length,  mayst  thou  ride : 

'Neath  thy  beauty  is  strength,  that  can  weather  the 

gale, 
And  skill,  that  can  baffle  the  tide ! 

Then  brothers  and  sisters,  etc. 


KNunquam  da  navem. 


NEVER   FEAR   MOLLY,    OR  ALL  FOR  THIS 
CHILLY,  DRIVING  RAIN. 

Oh!  the  night  is  dark  and  dreary,   and  the  rain  be 
gins  to  fall, 
And  it  was  to-night,  you  know,  mamma,  that  Willie 

said  he'd  call ; 
But  there's  no  use  list'ning  longer,    for   he   wont   be 

here  at  all, 
And  all  for  this  chilly,  driving  rain !  rain !  rain ! 

CHORUS — 

Oh !  never   fear  a  moment,  Molly  darling,  don't  you 

know, 
There  never  was  a  hurricane,  of  lightning  hail  or 

snow, 
Or  of  harder  things  I've  heard  of,  but  through  it  man 

would  go, 

If  the  girl  he  loved  sat  waiting,  with  her  heart,  like 
yours,  aglow. 


SONGS.  169 

It  may  be  he  had  started  before  the  rain  began — 

But,  if  so,  he'll  spend  the  evening  with  that  hateful 
Sary  Ann, 

For  she  lives  full  two  blocks  nearer,  and   she'll   stop 
him,  if  she  can, 

And  all  for  this  chilly,  driving  rain !  rain !  rain ! 
CHORUS. 

But  hark!  I  hear  a  footstep,   and    the   swinging   of 
the  gate — 

I  surely  thought  it  later — why,  it  has  not  yet  struck 
eight ! 

Oh !  Willie !  is  it  you  ?    I  was  sure   at   home   you'd 

wait, 

When  the    night  brought  this  chilly,  driving  rain ! 
rain !  rain ! 

CHORUS. 

Oh !  never  fear,  a  moment,  Molly  darling,  don't  you 
know 

There  never  was  a  hurricane,   of  lightning,  hail    or 
snow, 

Or  of  pitchforks  or  of  grindstones,   but   through  it 
man  would  go, 

•  If  the  girl  he  loved  sat  waiting,  with  her  heart  like 
yours  aglow. 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  THE  MENNONITES. 

In  the  south  hills   of   Russia,   there  dwelt  a  brave 

band; 

The  true,  sturdy  sons  of  the  dear  father-land ; 
Each  with  God-loving  heart,  and  with  toil  hardened 

hand ; 

And  they  planted  the  olive  and  vine : 
Fair  little  ones  played  'round  each  cottager's  door ; 
And  blest  was  the  hamlet,  in  health  and  in  store ; 
And  they  worshipped  their  God,  as  they  worshipped 

of  yore, 
When  they  dwelt  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine. 

CHORUS — 

All  hail !  to  the  heroes  of  seventy-four, 

Let  their  names  be  enrolled  with  the  heroes  of 

yore, 
Whom,  to  rocky  New  England,    the    Mayflower 

bore, 
For  Freedom  to  worship  God ! 


SONGS.  171 

But  the  time  honored  cross  of  the  iron-browed  Czar, 
Could  brook  not  the  heresy  heard  from  afar, 
But,  by  fetters  and  fire,  and  the  terrors  of  war, 

Peace  pined  in  that  hamlet,  and  died. 
Then,  away  from  the  friends  that  they  loved  in  good 

sooth, 
From  the  graves  of    their    sires,    and   the   homes    of 

their  youth, 
They  went,  for  the  honor  of  God,  and  of  truth, 

And  America's  arms  opened  wide. 

CHORUS. 

Ever  mild  shall  the  skies  be  that  over  them  shine; 
Like  gold  be  their  wheat,  and  like  nectar  their  wine ; 
For  the  Hand  that  hath  led,  and  shall   lead,    is   Di 
vine — 

May  that  dear  Hand  be  ever  in  view ! 
And  proudly  let  Freedom  her  pasans  awake, 
Let  valley  and  hill  into  harmony  break, 
And  the  wild  winds   the   strain   back    to   fatherland 
take, 

That  we  sing  for  the  brave  and  the  true ! 

CHORUS. 


"WAITING  FOR  PAPA." 

The  night  closed  in  darkness  and  weeping, 

The  rain  fell  in  slow,  sullen  beat ; 
The  village,  I  thought,  was  all  sleeping, 

Unheeding  the  tramp  of  my  feet : 
When,  soft,  as  I  passed  a  low  portal, 

A  sweet,  little  voice  that  I  knew, 
Cried  out,  in  the  darkness,  "  Dear  papa ! 

You  know  I  am  waiting  for  you ! " 

CHORUS — 

"Waiting,  dear  papa!  I'm  waiting,  still  waiting- 

You  soon  would  be  coming,  I  knew ; 
And  moonlight  or  darkness  or  tempest  or  cold, 
I'll  nightly  be  waiting  for  you ! " 

The  little  maid  peered  through  the  shadows, 
And  sadness  stole  over  her  tone ; 

'Twas  not  he  for  whom  she,  so  bravely, 
Stood  watching  and  waiting  alone, 


SONGS.  T  73 

She  sighed,  as  I  gently  caressed  her — 

All  wet  was  her  soft,  clinging  hair, 
And  damp  were  her  garments — I  whispered 

"  Go  in,  child,  and  wait  for  him  there ! " 
CHORUS. 

"Ah,  no!"  was  her  quick,  earnest  answer, 

"  When  mama  was  dying,  you  know, 
She  laid  her  white  hand  on  my  forehead 

And  told  me  to  wait  for  him  so: 
And  when  by  the  wine  he  is  tempted, 

Of  me,  by  the  gate,  he  will  think — 
The  revel  no  longer  remember, 

And  so  I  may  save  him  from  drink. " 
CHORUS. 

I  left  the  dear  child  at  the  gateway, 

The  last  of  a  once  sunny  home, 
And  wondered,  while  braving  the  tempest, 

How  long  ere  that  father  would  come ; 
And  why,  while  the  hearth  is  still  cheery, 

Men  check  not  their  steps  to  the  grave, 
Nor  wait  till  the  fond  hearts  grow  weary, 

And  above  them  the  wild  flowers  wave. 


1 74  SONGS. 

CHORUS  TO  LAST  VERSE — 

Waiting,  no  longer  they're  waiting,  they're  wait 
ing, 

With  hearts  beating  welcome  so  true ; 
And,  moonlight  or  darkness,  or  tempest  or  cold, 

Tis  lonely  and  silent  for  you. 


MARY!  SWEET  MARY!  I  DREAM  OF 
THEE,  EVER! 

Adown  in  the  valley,  where  wild  rose  and  willow, 

Their  bright  boughs  entwine,  o'er  the  low,  limpid 

stream ; 
I  wander,  once  more,  in  the  day's  dying  glory, 

And  muse  on  the  gladness  of  life's  early  dream. 
Though   autumn  has  come,   and  the   silver  threads 
glisten 

'Mid  locks  that  were  jet,  in  the  days  of  my  pride; 
Yet  sorrow  nor  years  can  dispel  the  fond  vision 

Of  Mary,  the  maiden  I  wooed  as  my  bride ! 

CHORUS — 

Mary!  sweet  Mary!  I  dream  of  thee  ever, 
And  weep  for  the  morning  to  banish  my  gloom ! 
The  brightness  of   earth  shall  awake  for  me 

never, 
For  the  light  of  my  life  is  all  hid  in  thy  tomb ! 


176  SONGS. 

The  gossamer  veil,  and  the  soft  robes  of  tissue, 

Enfold  her  fair  form,  in  her  low,  silent  bed ; 
And  garlands  of  orange,  and  sweet,  drooping  myrtle, 

They  'twined  for  her  bridal,  encircle  her  head. 
Adown  by  the  stream,  where  so  oft  we  had  wandered, 

They  laid  her  to  rest,  where  the  primroses  wav^; 
I'm  weary  of  waiting  so  long  for  the  morning — 

My  joy  is  all  hushed  in  the  gloom  of  her  grave ! 

CHORUS — 

Mary!  sweet  Mary!  The  morning  is  breaking! 

Already  its  light  is  dispelling  my  gloom ! 
I'm  coming — I'm  coming — all  sorrow  forsaking, 

To  clasp  thee,  immortal,  in  God's  bright  home  ! 


"THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD  TREE." 

Far  down,  in  the  shadowy  valley  of  years, 

That  make  up  the  sweet  "long  ago," 
There's  one  sunny  spot,  unbeclouded  by  tears, 

At  rest,  in  the  soft,  morning  glow. 
'Tis  the  dearly  loved  home  where  in  childhood 
I  played,       • 

And  rang  out  my  innocent  glee, 
While   loved  ones  kept   time,    with   a   musical 
chime, 

In  the  shade  of  the  old,  homestead  tree. 

CHORUS — 

Yes,  dear  to  my  heart,  sunny  mem'ry,  them  art ; 

May  nought  thy  fond  gleam  from  me  sever, 
Of  the  dear  ones  who  dwelt  in  that  low,   shaded 
cot, 

And  who  loved,  and  will  love  me  forever! 


178  SONGS. 

Beneath  its  rude  branches,   dwelt    all   the    dear 
forms 

That  made  earth  a  Heaven  appear; 

It   sheltered    our  cottage,  from  sun,    and   from 
storms, 

Through  many  a  swift,  gliding  year. 

Till,  from  out  its  broad  shadow,  they  went — one 
by  one — 

To  a  better  home,  sinless  and  free ; 
And  left  me  to  wander  the  wide  world  alone, 
Far  away  from  the  old  homestead  tree. 

CHORUS — 

Yet  dear  to  my  heart,  sunny  mem'rv,  thou  art ; 
May  nought  thy  fond  gleam  from  me  sever, 

Of  the  dear  ones  who  dwelt  in  that  low,   shaded 
cot, 

And  who  loved,  and  will  love  me,  forever! 

Years  hurry  along,  but  that  dream  of  the  past, 
Clings,  lovingly,  'round  my  lone  way; 

And  I  know,  when  with  shadows  my  sky  is  o'er 
cast, 

'Tis  the  darkness  that  heralds  the  day. 


SONGS.  179 

In  that  home,  whose  strange  beauty  can  never 
more  fade, 

The  loved  ones  are  waiting  for  me ; 
And  they'll  waft  a  sweet  welcome   to   her   who 

once  played 
With  them,  'neath  the  old  homestead  tree. 

CHORUS — 

Dear,  dear  to  my  heart,  sunny  mem'ry,  thou  art ; 

May  nought  thy  fond  gleam  from  me  sever, 
Of  the  dear  ones  who   dwelt  in  that  low,  shaded 
cot, 

And  who  loved,  and  will  love  me  forever ! 


SOCIETY  GREETING  SONG. 

With  merry,  merry  lay,  we  hail  this  day 

Of  glad  fraternal  meeting; 
And  welcome  true,  again  renew, 

With  song  of  joyous  greeting. 
No  breath  of  care  shall  tinge  the  air, 

Or  tremble  in  our  singing, 
But  the  birds  shall  wake,  and  echo  make, 

To  our  merry  voices  ringing, 
To  the  tra  la  la  la  la  trala  la,  la,  la, 

Of  our  merry,  merry  voices  ringing. 

The  garlands  that    we   bring,    their   perfume 
fling, 

An  incense  sweet  ascending, 
To  mem'ries  bright,  of  dear  delight, 

Their  smiles  and  fragrance  lending. 
And  love  and  truth,  and  hope  and  youth 


SONGS.  l8l 

Shall  triumph  in  our  singing, 
Till  the  birds  shall  wake  and  echo  make 

To  our  merry  voices  ringing — 
To  the  tra  la  la  la  la  trala  la,  la,  la, 

Of  our  merry,  merry  voices  ringing ! 

Oh!  may  each  happy  year,  that  brings  us  here, 

With  joy  be  overflowing; 
And  years  between,  may  we  be  seen, 

The  seeds  of  gladness,  sowing. 
Good  deeds,  alone,  the  soul  can  throne, 

And  fill  the  heart  with  singing, 
Till  the  birds  shall  wake,  and  echo  make 

With  a  peal  of  gladness  ringing — 
To  the  trala  la  la  la  trala  la,  la,  la, 

Of  our  merry,  merry  voices  ringing! 


SONG  OF  FREEDOM. 

Brothers  awake !  ere  the  knell  of  our  country 
Is  sounded,  and  traitors  hold  sway  in  the  land. 

Wake !  and  come  forth  in  this  darkness  and  peril ! 
"  Divided  we  fall" — but  "  United  we  stand !" 

Shall  we,  who  have  gloried  in  peace  and  in  freedom, 
And  wept  o'er  the  chain  of  the  poor,  oppressed  slave, 

Calmly  sit  down,  while  they  fasten  our  fetters? — 
Sleep?  as  they  bury  our  name  in  the  grave? 

Long  have  we  played  in  the  front  of  their  cannon; 

If  we  play  longer,  the  Nation  is  lost ! 
Wake!  ere  the  last  hope  of  liberty  perish; 

Think  what  it  is  to  us!    Think  what  it  cost! 

Feb.  1863. 


SONG  OF  THE  EXILE. 

Far  in  a  sunny,  southern  clime, 

Where  sighs  the  restless  sea, 
There  stands  a  vine-embowered  cot, 

E'en  yet  that's  dear  to  me. 
The  elm  trees  link  above  the  stream, 

Just  as  they  did  of  yore — 
But  ah !  I  would  it  were  a  dream, 

I'll  wander  there  no  more ! 

Long  years  have  passed  since  there  I  strayed, 

A  little  child  at  play; 
The  light  wind  sporting  with  the  locks, 

That  now  are  turning  gray. 
And  those  who  were  my  playmates  then — 

The  guileless  and  the  gay, 
Whose  hearts  were  full  of  love,  and  truth, 

And  fond  hopes — Where  are  they? 


184  SONGS. 

Sweet  mem'ries  cling  around  the  spot. 

That  once  was  home  to  me ; 
And  still  I  love  to  live  again 

The  days  that  used  to  be. 
Time  has  estranged,  and  sadly  chilled 

The  hearts  I  thought  my  own; 
And,  in  my  few  short  exile  years, 

I've  strangely  weary  grown. 

They've  been  so  full  of  bitterness, 

I  would  they  were  a  dream, 
A*d  I  might  once  again  awake, 

Beside  that  mountain  stream ; 
And  find  the  world  as  good  and  pure 

As  it  is  bright  and  fair; 
Then  lay  me  down — while  yet  a  child. 

And  breathe  my  life  out  there ! 

1858  SUMMER. 


TEMPERANCE  ARMY  SONG. 

TUNE — "JOHN   BROWN." 

Our  souls  shall  see  the  triumph  of  the  army   of   the 
Lord! 

He'll  hear  our  cry  of  agony,    He's   promised   in   his 
Word;— 

Intemperance  shall  perish,  by  the  Christian  woman's 
sword, 

And  victory  is  nigh ! 

CHORUS — 

Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 

Glory,  glory,  hallelujah! 

Glory,  glory,  hallelujah! 

Our  victory  is  nigh! 

Hark !  the  tumult  of  the  battle-,  hear  the  boom  of  dis 
tant  guns ! 

And  cries  that  leap  to  Heaven,   for   our   loved   and 
fettered  ones! 

America  is  rising  for  the  freedom  of  her  sons, 

victory  is  nigh  ! 
CHORUS. 


1 86  SONGS. 

Oh !  who  shall  stay  the  morning  that  is  bursting  from 
the  night? 

Oh!  who  shall  stay  the  army  that  is  led  by  Heaven's 
might  ? 

In  brave  unbroken  column,  we  shall  put  our  foes  to 
flight, 

victory  is  nigh ! 


IN  SUNNY  LANDS. 

In  sunny  lands  I  long  have  strayed, 

Through  valleys  wondrous  fair; 
Where  strange,  bright  flow'rs,  in  cocoa's  shade, 

Swung  on  the  tropic  air. 
And  happy  sound  of  bird  and  stream, 

Wherever  I  might  roam, 
Were  near,  yet  sadly  would  I  dream, 

And  pine  for  sweet,  sweet  home. 

CHORUS — 

Home !  home  ! — dear,  happy  home ! 

^LaJi£fc. 

I  here  s  bliss,  the  purest  heart  can  give, 

In  my  own  dear  home ! 

I've  been  where  wealth  and  beauty  met, 
And  wit,  and  mirth  went  round ; 

And  merry  feet  were  tripping  light, 
To  sweet,  inspiring  sound. 


1 88  SONGS. 

Yet,  like  a  lone,  imprisoned  bird, 
That  loves  the  bright  sea  foam, 

The  strain  of  melody  I  heard, 
But  turned  my  heart  to  home ! 

Oh !  not  in  blooming  isles  afar, 

The  loving  soul  would  roam ; 
For,  where  the  heart's  best  treasures  are, 

We  all  may  find  sweet  home. 
No  marble  tow'r  may  mark  the  spot — 

No  broad,  o'ershad'wing  dome — 
Mine  is  a  low  and  humble  cot, 

And  yet,  'tis  sweet,  sweet  home ! 


SONG. 

The  myrtle  wraps  thy  lowly  grave 

In  beauty  and  in  bloom ; 
And  bending  willows  gently  wave 

Their  branches  o'er  thy  tomb; 
And  yet  thy  own  sweet  voice  I  hear, 

Upon  the  winds'  low  sigh ; 
And  feel  thy  spirit  hov'ring  near, 

Too  pure  and  good  to  die. 

Sweet  Mary !  when  the  weary  world 

Is  sunk  in  soft  repose. 
When  sunset's  banners  all  are  furled, 

And  shadows  wrap  the  rose. 
Oh !  then  but  sweeter  falls  thy  tone, 

Upon  my  list'ning  heart ; 
Still  thou  art,  as  of  old,  my  own, 

And  dearer,  e'en  thou  art. 


1 90  SONGS. 

Then  wait,  my  darling!  ever  sing 

The  while  I  lonely  stay ; 
Oh !  let  no  angel  beckoning 

Woo  thee,  from  me  away! 
Wait  till  the  golden  gate  shall  swing 

Ajar  to  welcome  me, 
That  I  may  float,  on  angel  wing, 

To  Heaven,  led  by  thee ! 


ITALIAN  CHILD'S  SONG. 

Swiss  AIR. 

I'm  alone,  I'm  alone,  in  a  drear,  foreign  land, 
'Tis  the  voice  of  the  stranger  I  hear; 

And  the  forms  that    once   sported    with    me,    a   gay 
band, 

Are  scattered,  alas!  far  and  near. 

One  dear  one  sleeps  where  billows  roar 

Their  hoarse,  wild  anthems,  evermore ; 

And  the  bright  pearls  rest  on  his  peaceful  breast, 

Afar  from  the  land  he  loved  best ! 

There's  a  dell,  there's  a  dell  where  the  bright  waters 
foamed, 

O'er  the  gray,  mossy  rocks,  in  their  way; 
And  it  seems  scarce  an  hour,  since  I  gleefully  roamed, 
On  its  margin,  with  spirits  as  gay. 

The  silv'ry  tone,  that  cheered  me  then, 
Is  heard  no  more  within  the  glen ; 
But  the  fair,  fragile  form  of  my  sister  is  laid 
'Neath  the  same  forest  tree  where  we  played. 


192  SONGS. 

There's  a  voice,  there's  a  voice  from  the  pure,  spirit 
land. 

Breathing  gently  its  music  to  me ; 
And  I  feel  that  her  spirit  is  hovering  near, 
Though  she  sleeps  far  across  the  blue  sea. 
Oh!  never,  in  Italian  bow'r, 
Till  then  had  drooped  so  fair  a  flow'r ; 

But  I'll  weep  not,  sweet   mother,    thou   now   art    at 
rest, 

In  the  bright,  sinless  land  of  the  blest. 

In  my  dreams,  in  my  dreams,  come  again   the   sweet 
days, 

That  may  never  return  but  in  dreams ; 
And  the  tears,  that  ye  pity,  but  brighten  my  ga/e, 
To  the  bliss  of  their  soft,  starry  gleams, 
Thus  ever  sweet  my  harp  shall  ring, 
While  treasured  loves  I  weep  and  sing, 
Till  I  sweep,  with  glad  fingers,  a  new  harp  of  gold. 
With  the  loved  ones,  in  rapture  untold ! 


COME  TO  ME  ELLA. 

Oh!  bright  is  the  glow  of  the  deep,  starry  skies, 

And  the  sunshine  that  smiles  everywhere; 
But  dim  is  their  light  by  the  love  in  thine  eyes, 

And  the  flash  of  thy  soft,  sunny  hair, 
Though  costly  the  pleasures  of  palaces  princely, 

Though  Pleasure  and  Wit  meet  in  many  a  hall, 
Yet  give  me  the  cottage  where  Ella,  sweet  Ella 

And  I  dwell  in  happiness  deeper  than  all. 

CHORUS — 

Come  to  me  Ella!  my  own  wife  Ella! 
Come  sit,  as  of  old,  on  my  knee ; 

While  I  clasp  to  my  heart  rarer  treasures  than 

gold— 
AnS"  Eden  of  gladness,  and  thee  ! 

Around  us,  all  glowing  with  purple  and  gold, 
The  blossoming  meadows  are  spread ; 

And  roses  and  lilacs  our  bower  enfold. 
All  drooping  with  fragrance  o'erhead.' 


1 94  SONGS. 

The  bright,  cooing  birds  -build    their   nest   at    our 
window. 

And  fearlessly  warble  the  wealth  of  their  glee ; 
But  sweeter,  ah !  sweeter,  the  voice  of  my  Ella, 

That  whispers  in  low,  cooing  love-notes  to  me ! 

CHORUS — 

Come  to  me,  Ella!  my  own  wife,  Ella! 
Come  sit,  as  of  old,  on  my  knee ; 

While  I  clasp  to  my  heart  rarer  treasures  than 

gold— 
An  Eden  of  gladness,  and  thee! 


MINNE-HA-HA. 

In  the  gay,  golden  summert-ime,  long,  long  ago, 
By  the  brink  of  thy  bright,  laughing  stream, 

We  wandered  together,  my  darling  and  I, 
In  the  glow  of  love's  first,  happy  dream. 

The  roses  were  wild  that  he  twined  in  my  hair, 
And  lichen  grew  soft  'neath  our  tread; 

And  the  white,  foaming  torrent,  and  rock  where 

it  fell, 
Made  the  chapel  wherein  we  were  wed. 

CHORUS — 

Oh!  wild  Minne-ha-ha!  thy  music  was  joy. 

And  our  hearts  echoed  back  all  thy  song ; 
Our  Future  a  dreamland  of  ecstasy  grew, 

And  life  seemed  long — Oh!  how  long! 

Oh.!  that  sweet  gliding  summer-time  sped  like  the 

light, 
When  the  sunset  is  flaming  with  gold ; 

And  darkness  and  anguish  closed  'round  me  like 

night, 
When  my  darling  lay  silent  and  cold. 


196 

There's  a  sigh  in    the   forest    that   listened   our 

vows, 
And  a  wail  on  the  once  merry  wave ; 

For  the  rush  of  thy  torrent  he  heareth  not  now, 
And  thy  spray  weepeth  over  his  grave. 

CHORUS — 

Oh!  wild  Minne-ha-ha!  thy  music  is  woe, 
And  my  heart  echoes  back  all  thy  song, 

As  I  wait  for  the  angels  to  welcome  me  too — 
I  wait — I  wait — Oh:  how  long! 

Adown  in  thy  valley  where  violets  bloom, 
Be,  in  wildness  and  tumult,  my  home; 

Let  no  marble  column  point  out  my  low  tomb, 
When  the  angel,  in  pity,  shall  come. 

Faithful  still,  though  in  death,  would   I  rest  by 

his  side 
'Mid  the  rush  and  the  chant  of  thy  wave; 

And  the  gray,  mossy  rock,  where  I  knelt   as  his 

bride, 
Be  the  monument  over  our  grave. 

CHORUS — 

Oh:  wild  Minne-ha-ha,  thy  music  is  woe, 

And  my  heart  echoes  back  all  thy  song, 
As  I  wait  for  the  angels  to  welcome  me  too, 

I  wait — I  wait — Oh:  how  long: 
(>ct.  1867. 


POOR    OLD    NANCE,    OR    "MY    DEAR  BOY 
JAMIE'S  HAIR." 

On  Croghan  street  still  stands  a  cot, 

That  sheltered  once  a  dame ; 
So  poor  and  lonely  was  her  lot, 

None  cared  to  ask  her  name. 
And  years  went  by,  and  white  locks  drooped, 

Above  her  dark  eyes  glance ; 
But  not  a  soul  yet  cared  to  know 
A  word  of  poor  old  Nance. 

CHORUS — 

But  oh !  her  heart  was  warm  and  true 

As  ever  beat  for  me  or  you ; 
And  mem'ries  bright  as  earth  has  known, 
Hung  'round  her  pathway  lone. 

One  bitter  morn  she  came  not  forth, 

But  pity  heeded  not; 
A  week  went  by,  and  children  missed 

The  smoke  above  her  cot : 


198  SONGS. 

Their  curious  eyes  her  window  sought, 
But  shrank,  and  lost  their  mirth ; 

For  poor  old  Nance  sat,  white  in  death, 
Before  her  silent  hearth! 

CHORUS — Yet  once  her  heart,  &c. 

The  tears  were  fro/en  on  her  cheeks; 

Her  white  lips  wore  a  smile ; 
Her  hands  an  open  Bible  pressed, 

With  rev'rent  touch,  the  while; 
And  one  bright  curl,  of  sunny  gold, 

Lay  softly  shining  there : 
And  on  the  time-stained  page  they  read- 

"  My  dear  boy  Jamie's  hair ! " 

CHORUS — Oh!  ves,  her  heart,  &c. 


LOVE'S  LAST  LULLABY,  OR  "MAMA  SING!" 

Summer  twilight  lost  her  glow, 

In  the  pale  moon's  mellow  light. 
As  a  mother,  fair  and  young, 

Watched  her  babe  the  lone,  still  night, 
Once,  one  mocking  moment,  Death 

Hid  the  shadow  of  his  wing; 
And  the  dim  eyes  brightened  fair, 

As  he  whispered,  "Mama  sing!" 

CHORUS — 

By  oh !  by,  my  baby  by, 

Be  thy  tears  forever  dry ; 

Rest !  my  Love !  nor  wake  to  weep — 

Rest,  baby,  rest !     Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

All  her  loving  labor  done, 

She  had  only  now  to  wait, 
Clinging  to  the  pale,  sweet  one, 

Till  he  reached  the  shining  gate. 


SONGS. 

Oh !  the  agony  and  love, 

In  the  kisses  gently  pressed 
On  the  drooping  baby  head, 

Pillowed  on  her  aching  breast  1 

By  oh!  by,  my  baby  by, 

Be  thy  tears  forever  dry  ; 

Rest,  my  Love !  nor  wake  to  weep — 

Rest,  baby,  rest!     Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

Thus  her  cadence,  soft  and  sweet 

As  an  angel's,  stirred  the  air, 
While  the  death  shades  closed  again, 

O'er  the  eyes  that  beamed  so  fair ; 
Till  she  hushed  him  to  a  sleep, 

Sweeter  far  than  earth's  repose — 
Waking  only  on  the  Breast 

Where  a  love  supernal  glows ! 

By,  oh !  by,  my  baby  by, 

Be  thy  tears  forever  dry; 

Rest,  my  Love,  nor  wake  to  weep — 

Rest,  baby,  rest!     Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 


"SHE  SPELT  THE  PARSON  DOWN." 

Oh !  yes,  I'll  surely  marry, 

At  last  I've  found  my  girl — 
A  fair  and  rosy  maiden, 

That  sets  my  heart  awhirl. 
Her  eyes  with  mirth  are  brimming, 

Her  heart  is  kind  and  true ; 
I  more  than  guess  she's  willing, 

So  I'll  marry — would'nt  you? 

CHORUS — 

She's  the  prettiest  little  maiden, 

With  eyes  of  brightest  brown ; 
And  wise  enough,  for  oh !  you  know, 

She  spelt  the  parson  down ! 

The  moon  was  brightly  beaming, 
The  air  was  soft   and  cool, 

As,  on,  we  slowly  wandered, 
Home  from  the  spelling  school. 


SONGS. 

I  asked  her  if  she  loved  me, 
And  heard  her  softly  say 

A  word  I  must  not  tell  you, 
But  oh !  it  was  not  nay. 


CHORUS. 


Oh !  in  the  bright  years  coming, 

As  down  life's  stream  we  float, 
We'll  cast  a  fond  look  backwards, 

From  out  our  gliding  boat ; 
And  lovingly  remember 

That  evening  bright  and  cool. 
And  bless  the  time  we  wandered 

Home  from  the  spelling  school. 


CHORUS. 


"ANGELS  HOLD  HER  IN  SAFE  KEEPING." 

IN    MEMORY    OF    LULU — 

In  the  brightness  of  her  beauty, 

We  have  laid  our  loved  to  rest ; 
We  have  kissed  her  waxen  forehead, 

And  her  slender  fingers  pressed  ; 
While  so  peaceful  was  her  sleeping, 

And  so  bright  the  smile  she  wore, 
That  it  seemed  while  yet  we  lingered, 

That  her  slumber  must  be  o'er. 

CHORUS — 

Gentle  Lulu !  Darling  Lulu ! 

Death  nor  Time  shall  part  our  love : 
Soon  the  angels  too  will  bear  me 
To  thy  blissful  home  above ! 

Lilies,  loving  hands  had  scattered, 

Drooped  on  brow  and  breast  and  cheek, 

Breathing,  in  their  silent  perfume, 
Sweetest  language  love  can  speak ; 


"204  SONGS. 

But  their  bloom,  alas !  has  withered, 

And  their  loving  breath  has  fled, 
While  our  lily  blooms  immortal — 

Darling  Lulu  is  not  dead! 
CHORUS. 

Oft,  when  fades  the  sunset  glory, 

Comes  the  voice  I  love  so  well ; 
And  her  love-smile  beams  upon  me, 

With  a  calm  and  holy  spell; 
Till  my  yearning  soul  half  pierces, 

Through  the  shadows  cold  and  gray ; 
And  the  breath  and  glow  of  Heaven 

Cheer  and  light  my  lonely  way. 
CHORUS. 

Then  away !  with  woe  and  weeping, 

Let  my  heart  her  anguish  stay! — 
Angels  hold  her  in  safe  keeping, 

Till  awakes  the  coming  day, 
When  her  arms  shall  clasp  around  me, 

And  her  kiss  be  on  my  brow ; 
And  anew  her  love  hath  crowned  me 

With  a  bliss  I  dream  not  now! 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS.—  PAGE. 

Proem,      -         -  5 

Left  for  dead,        .         -  7 

Lines  upon  visiting  my  native  Village,  9 

The  Death-dream,         ...  j^ 

Extract  from  an  Essay  on  Mystery,  20 

Lines  to  a  Friend,          -         -  22 

Whispers  from  beyond,  24 

Why  full  of  care?  25 

A  Dream,  26 

Night  and  Morning,      -  37 

Little  "Pet,"  50 

God  knoweth  best,  52 

To  Vira  C— ,     -  53 

Work  as  well  as  Pray,  54 

To-,        .  55 
Poem  delivered  at  the  Quinquennial  Reunion  of  the 

Alumni  of  Hillsdale  College,  56 

The  forsaken  Home, 64 

Suspense,  66 

To  the  Hon.  Mr.  H—  and  Lady,  70 

To  a  flower,  72 

Eighteen,  75 

By-and-By,  -  78 

To  J-,  78 

All  about  Blackbirds,   -  79 

"One  man  missing,"  Si 

Mrs.  Shoddy,  83 

Lines  on  the  death  of  a  little  child,  -  86 

A  sigh,  87 


CONTENTS— CONTINUED. 

Poem  delivered  at  the  dedication  of  the  Society  Hall 

of  the  Eclectics  and  Atheniades,  Albion  College,  89 

The  soul  can  never  grow  old,         ....  96 

At  last,     .         ---  99 

Never  Mind,         -  101 

Concerning  a  Lawyer's  handwriting,           ...  102 

A  glimpse  of  doom, 106 

The  thought  that  clings,                               -         -         -  117 

Decoration  day,    -  121 
The  happy  past,         -                  -----123 

Fragment,     -         -  124 
Poem  delivered  at  New  England  Dinner,  Marshall, 

Michigan,  1871,  125 

A  Voice  from  the  Ranks, 129 

SONGS.— 

Away  to  the  silver-lit  sea, 164. 

Greeting  song,                -  166 

Never  fear  Molly  !    or  all  for  this  chilly,  driving  rain,  168 

A  Tribute  to  the  Mennonites,        ....  iyO 

"Waiting  for  Papa," 172 

Mary  !  Sweet  Mary  !  I  dream  of  thee  ever  !          -  175 

"The  Old  Homestead  Tree,"     -  177 

Society  greeting  song,  180 

Song  of  Freedom,              -         -         -         -         -         -  182 

Song  of  the  Exile, 183 

Temperance  Army  Song,            -         -                  -         -  185 

In  Sunny  Lands,  187 

Song, 189 

Italian  child's  song,  191 

Come  to  me  Ella,              ......  193 

Minne-ha-ha,         .......  195 

Poor  old  Nance,  or  "My  dear  boy  Jamie's  hair,"       -  197 

Love's  last  Lullaby,  or  "Mama  Sing  !"  199 

"She  spelt  the  parson  down,"             ....  2oi 

"Angels  hold  her  in  safe  keeping,"  203 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-lCOm-9,'52(A3105)444 


Patterson  - 

Peebles  for  old 

F2?8p  pathways. 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS2524   .P278p 

yr 


L  009  578  489  8 


PS 

252U 

P2?8p 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIL  TY 

AA    001217530    3 


